


Despondent Nuance

by Chryses



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Harry is a genius, Harry is depressed, Louis is Harry's Watson, M/M, Styles Family - Freeform, Tomlinson Family, alcohol use, also, companionship au of sorts, he probably hates people, influences of Sherlock (TV), louis is a vet's assistant, probably, some influences of elementary series, still deciding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:42:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 74,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryses/pseuds/Chryses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Zayn talked Louis into looking after a drug-addict, neurotic genius, Harry Styles, who (probably) dabbles in misantrophy. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was watching a recent episode of Elementary, the series, and I stumbled upon where Sherlock had a breakdown. As sadistic as it may sound, I gain inspiration from just trying to connect to his thoughts, and it actually worked out really well, because I was able to piece this together with hardly any restraints, and here you are! Chapter 1 can be read as a oneshot, but if you want more, it's a wip. :)

He wasn't even sure as to how his morning should've gone.

On a normal day, he would've helped out at a clinic, would've had to deal with some Hispanic poodle who thought that biting his hands would get him to release it from its cage. He would have had to take out some sort of leaden gloves from a special compartment, then helped position the violent mongrel long enough in order for Mrs. Maddy, his employer, to take a good look at small and vicious, before easing it back onto its cage to be retrieved by the awaiting owner.

The bloody thing would've barked in retaliation, but Louis would always, always wear this patronizing smirk at the dog, giving it (him, apparently) a rather aggressive pat towards his cage, before grabbing the material by its handles, then welcoming a new customer as he skims his finger down the list.

But again, that would've occurred at a _normal_ day, but it's probably safe to say, that today is worlds away to even begin to be referred to as a 'typical' day.

Why?

Because it all started with him waking up.

Pretty monotonous, probably waxing on cliché, an overly used beginning to any story that's been turned away, and spurned by common readers, writers and editors alike. Which is...yeah. Typical. But there's really no point in glazing things with pretty words, some booze, and then some, because that's pretty much how his day started.

He's no author, so there's really no point in even lacing anything coherent at the moment, because he felt like shit.

His eyes were red rimmed and pink from the lack of sleep, and his mouth drooped at the corner, where a trail of spit had been stringed into a thin strand, stopping right his jaw. His hair had flecks of glitter, dirt, and something sticky that he's not sure he wanted to know the consistency of. His stomach is growling from the lack of food, and his tongue could probably par with sandpaper.

So overall, most rationalities aside that urged him to shower (because frankly, he smelt like the sewers with withering cadavers in its toxic sewage waste), and get rid of all the gunk on him, it only made sense that he ambles himself towards the living room of his flat.

On his way there, he is met with some humming, and probably an uncoordinated swish of the hips to the side, along with a plate of holy grail--or in other words, a full english breakfast. He abruptly stops.

Who the hell was in his kitchen?

There's a silence that drifted along the nonsensical melody from the radio, before a head full of jet black hair, and beautifully sculpted cheekbones pokes his head in from the door that connected the living room to the kitchen. Zayn? When did he get here?

"Zay--"

But Zayn shushes him instantly, beaming, as he hands a transparent glass full of water, along with two pills--that he vaguely recognizes as Advil--that can only come from his own personal stash inside a tin can, along with some bandages he always made sure to be stocked at all times, and some months-old lottery ticket he couldn't bother to check.

With a groan, he grants the lad a small smile, before popping both pills gratefully into his mouth, and chugging down the last of the water, and handing it back to Zayn.

Zayn quickly places the cool, empty glass onto the sink, before handing a plateful of a stack of chocolate chip pancakes, a handful of perfectly cooked sausages to the side, and some scrambled eggs, with a piece of mint at the top to add to the artery clogging meal. The whole thing would probably go right down to his thighs, but he didn't care. He is starving like a man living on nothing but the donations offered to him.

This start seemed off putting in itself, because what was Zayn doing in his flat? Moreover, what was he even doing in Manchester, when he could've sworn that he'd been studying in France for a semester for a few of his art courses.

"Zayn, what are you--" he tries to question, but he was only met with a disapproving gaze in return, almost as if he didn't want to speak a word. But the clear guilt written in the corner of his eyes told him that they were far from being done.

"Lou, I swear." He sighs, carding an anxious hand through his hair, swallowing slightly. Zayn looked trepid, even downright spooked. What the hell is even happening that they couldn't speak of it now? Whatever _it_ was. "I'll tell you everything--everything, just.. eat, for now, yeah? And I'll talk." He adds, licking at his lower lip nervously.

Now he wasn't even so sure if he was hungry anymore. But clearly, his stomach didn't get the itinerary, growling almost angrily, sensing the steaming plate of food that's held about a meter away. He's got a traitor for a body. But that doesn't stop him from taking the proffered plate towards his couch, and flicking open the television, without even a glance towards it, and digging into his meal.

It's after his third bite that Zayn follows suit, and seating himself on the side, opposite from where Louis sat, with a steaming plate of his own, untouched.

Louis says nothing, shoveling another bite towards his awaiting mouth, but it was during that time that Zayn chooses to speak.

"So," he swallows, fiddling with a fork on his hand. "You got pretty hammered last night."

Louis hums, inadvertently rolling his eyes.

"Zayn, since when do I take shit from small talk?" He rasps, speaking full sentences for the first time since last night, throat eerily scratchy and off-pitched. "Now tell me what the fuck's going on."

"Well," Zayn starts, shifting his eyes from left to right, not once meeting Louis'. Which only no doubt fuels more to Louis' urge to beat the answer from his best mate. "You're probably wondering as to what I'm doing in Manchester, rather than Paris, yeah?"

Louis nods slowly, unsure whether to answer or not, because he's lost in thought too, trying to conjure scenarios as to how Zayn would break whatever _it_ was to him, regardless if he had answered or not.

But of course, his mouth was faster than his brain, and..well..

"Oh my god! Zayn! Don't tell me you're running away from some French mafia or something?" He gasps, cowering away slightly, empty plate all but forgotten on the glass table that sat in front of them. "Because me and Liam had this bet that you'd somehow meet some collector in Paris, instead of actually working on your courses, and that you'd be stringed along with cold blooded mafioso that lurked along France."

"Louis."

"And then Niall even pitched in that you'd most likely flee back to either Liam's or Niall's, just so that you could hide the stash that you'd been supplied to sell around London."

"Louis."

"Oh wait! Who the fuck am I kidding?! That's why you came to me, right? That's why you're in here? In Manchester? To hide your weed stash in my flat? Just so that you don't get busted by some drug lord who's hell bent on supplying copious amounts of marijuana that you supposedly have?"

"Lou--"

"Or wait, I don't think it's even weed! Zayn," he leans in closer to his friend's face, eyeing him a little too closely. "Zayn, did you kill somebody? Is that why--mhhhpphh!"

"First of all," Zayn sighs. "I'm neither involve with anything regarding the mafia, nor did I kill somebody."

Louis opens his mouth to speak, but Zayn only buries his finger deeper onto the cushion of Louis' lip.

"But what about--"

Zayn sighs, rolling his eyes. "I'm getting to it, yeah? So can you not interrupt me while I'm trying to tell you the whole story, okay mate?"

Louis bobs his head, gently sliding away Zayn's finger from his lips, and waving the boy to continue.

Zayn took a moment to gather his thoughts, before resuming from where he left off. "So anyways, like I said, I was supposed to be in Paris, but I left when I got this phone call from the hospital about a long lost mate of mine, who was recently found in his building with sliced up wrists, and was filed in for attempted suicide.

"At first, I questioned the doctor, demanding to know who it was that they're actually speaking about, because they seemed frantic on the other line. Almost on the borderline hysterics because they couldn't deal with him anymore. I asked if it was you--seeing as you'd have these episodes where you're just fucking insane--"

To which Louis tried to pitch in his protest, but was silenced, by the way Zayn's gaze slices through him.

"--But they told me that it wasn't you, and had asked if you needed to be looked after, or watched for any potential harm to yourself--which I turned away, and instead asking who it was, but all they said was that he had a full head of curly brown hair and green eyes.

"When I questioned as to why they wouldn't provide me with his name, they told me that he only averted their attention away from the subject, and instead prattling on how he only wanted to be alone.

"Of course, they got impatient and probably sedated him a few times to keep him away from leaving the hospital at least thirteen times, before he became impatient and annoyed, and told them to get in touch with me, and that he refused to be sought out by anybody but me.

"It took them a while, but they caught hold of my medical records, and had decided to call me when I was heading out for some lunch, and had asked of me to pick him up.

"Let me tell you, it took quite a long time for me to piece together who had those characteristics that they described, but by the time I got to the airport on my way here, I knew instantly who it was, even before I entered through the hospital doors.

"Harry, erm, he perked up instantly--even went as far as taking out his IV from his arms when he saw me. Told me how boring it was being hospitalized, and how he'll never try to mess with anatomy again, before capturing me in this massive bear hug, and shoving this folder onto my hands, urging for me to sign it."

Louis sighs. "Any time today, Zayn?"

"Fuck of, Lou." Zayn sighs, resuming. "Anyways, I signed it--obviously, then we went out to the bar, to reminisce our childhood days, but the doctor had insisted that I stayed behind, briefing me about his conditions, with his CRH being abnormally high, and the amount of marijuana levels in his system is flushed out for now, but they know what the conditions of what an addict's body looked like, and had concluded that he's potentially depressed. Of course, I didn't tell Harry that--because I'm sure he would've told me in his own time, but from the way he looked at me after that little meeting, he looked like someone who'd already given up--lost his purpose in life, and that he didn't care if I knew. Wouldn't even dream of taking any kind of gratification from anybody."

Zayn shifts uncomfortably on the spot he sat on, the Telly's voice drowning out the silence that's settled between the two. Louis continues to chew on his lower lip, unsure if he wanted to hear anymore, but the moment is broken, when Zayn began speaking again.

"So, we went out that night. Got fucking plastered, then the morning after, when I'm assured by Harry--made him fucking promise me with his _life_ that he would stay at his flat for the day, and not go outside, or potentially do harm onto himself--including drugs, I headed out for your flat right after, which is why I'm here."

Louis snorts. "And how are you so sure that your little friend wouldn't do that shit again, exactly?"

"I was getting to that." Quips Zayn defensively. "I had Liam go to his flat, and make sure that Harry and him are nowhere close to one another."

"Don't trust your boyfriend, eh mate?" Louis winks, nudging his friend playfully.

And Zayn gives an indignant squawk, batting at his elbow, but says nothing more of the topic. Which was...odd. "Anyways, on my way here, I got a phone call from an unknown number. Turns out it was his dad, you know, Des Styles?"

"The uncanny, cut throat, record-winning singer/song-writer? From the band 'Trenches'?" Questions Louis with a tilt of the head.

"Yeah, him." Zayn affirms with a nod. "So he heard about Harry's little antics through the tabloid, and offered me a job to 'babysit' his son, since me and Harry are mates and all."

"I feel like I'm not going to like what's going to happen next." Louis voices out, staring down at his fingers.

Zayn throws him a cautious smile (that he didn't pay attention to), before looking away. "So, I told him of my programs in Uni, and how I needed to get back as soon as possible--that I couldn't afford to waste much time in London, much else look after Harry. But he insisted though, told me that Harry's a genuine disgrace to the family name, and that if he doesn't get his act together, then he can get himself killed if he kept on going with what he does in the public eye."

Louis felt his countenance shift to a petrified nuance.

"Look," Zayn sighs, meeting mourning gold with pale and confused blue. "Don't kill me, but I may have given him your contact information."

Louis sputters in an instant, his stomach clenching and unclenching, because what.the.actual.fuck?! Did Zayn just tell him that he's going to be babysitting a drug-addled, depressed addict without his consent?!

"What?!"

"He offered me a large amount of money, you know?" Zayn throws in, like he genuinely thought that the information could make a difference. It can't. "But I couldn't accept it, because I actually like my progress right now in Uni, so I couldn't afford to just sully my future just for a small fortune that could probably last me 10 to 20 years, maximum."

"Zayn!" Louis whines, clenching his fists at his friend's shoulders. " _You_ just signed me up to babysit the son of a man that I've never met?!"

"I tried to get away with it, Lou. But he tells me that he looked into my file, and knew I had a few student loans in need of a payment, and that I must simply reconsider his offer.

"I told him, that I couldn't, and that I'm already making enough money to pay those off with my newest pieces sold in auctions, but he seemed desperate, told me that it could be a monthly salary instead.

"And I came this close to accepting the offer--believe me I did, but I promised my mom that I'll finish Uni, because I know she's given me this opportunity for this very reason, so I insisted that I really couldn't do it.

"Mr. Styles understood my situation, and asked if I knew anybody in my circle that I'd be willing to recommend the job to, and then my mind drifted to your weekly ranting sessions to me via Skype, telling me that you're already been planning out your death, if your depreciation ensues--that you could do better than to just be destined in working at some clinic that barely anybody pays attention to, with minimum wage. So, long-story-short, I signed you up, told him your name and contact information, and told me that he'd be getting back with you soon."

"Zayn--" he trails off. "I--" And then his phone rings to his side, and he barely even had time to consider anything. Barely even had time to digest his breakfast for pete's sake.

Zayn looked to him pleadingly, fluttering his stupidly pretty, clustered, womanly lashes, when he accepts the call.

"Hello Mr. Styles." He greets with a sigh, furrowing his brows, as he closes his eyes. "Zayn, er, Mr. Malik informed me about a job?"

His friend tenses when Des began speaking again, telling him of the same details as per Zayn's queuing earlier, and the salary details--especially the salary details, and his opportunity to do better things than the minimum wage that he's granted at the vet.

He says nothing all throughout the conversation, only went so far as to humming at certain points, but he figured that there was nothing this man only wanted to hear, but a closing deal.

With a last glance to his friend, who looked absolutely mortified, squeezing the life out of Louis' fingertips, he considers his offer one more time, before answering the man.

"I'd very much like to take you up on your offer, sir." He rasps, surprised as to how'd he managed to sound composed. "When do I start?"

-

He shifts uncomfortably on his seat, parking his car into the a dedicated garage, reserved for specifically to apartment 203: Harry's flat to be exact.

"Zayn, I'm not sure if I can do this."

He remembers telling his friend, just after he signs a contract, dictating Des as his employer, that he is to monitor Harry's activities, and to spur him away from any sort of trouble that the media can latch its claws onto.

"Lou, you're the most sassiest, most stubborn person I know in my entire life, that I could've ever had the pleasure of meeting." He says, when Des has dispersed for yet another meeting with his associates. "If you can't get Harry to change, for the better, then I doubt that anybody who's waiting on your job would be able to handle him."

Louis stayed quiet for a while, soaking up the warm feeling that came with Zayn's words. How nobody really had appreciated his sense of wanting what's best, and demanding it up front. How nobody really stuck right by him long enough, other than Zayn.

But he had to know.

"You really mean that?" He asks, hesitant. "I mean, you could just be buttering me up, so that you wouldn't feel too guilty in giving me a job I never agreed to?"

Zayn snorts, head bowed to his lap. "I didn't," and he shakes his head, meeting Louis' gaze with clear sincerity and other emotions he couldn't decipher, his lips curling into a pleasant, genuine smile. "I couldn't think of anybody else suited for the job more than you, Lou. Nobody else."

A sickly smile follows right after, gracing itself upon Louis' lips, something close to fond, and appreciative--something that he only felt when the stupid warmth on the pit of his stomach chooses to take over his entire being, forces itself onto his veins. He really hates feeling like this. Feeling this warm, when he should be feeling the dread, the forlorn prints in every bone on his body, to keep himself away from anything overindulgent, because that will only make it all the more difficult to part with them when life declares separation.

So he allows reality to soak over him, allows the bad happenings to drown out the happy. It's better this way, he thinks.

"And besides," Zayn hums, wrapping an arm around him as he sips at his wine. "You always mentioned that we're all destined for great things, am I right?"

Louis snorts at that. "You mean, by babysitting a 23 year-old, possibly depressed addict? I didn't actually ask for that, as sort of forthcoming, Zayn."

"I don't think that the doctrine inclines for you to be picky." Zayn smirks, downing his wine. "Plus, it wouldn't be dogs that you'd be sticking your fingers into, _and_ you actually get paid to do it. Good money." He adds with an approving nod.

But Louis is already launching himself toward the lad without a second thought.

201, 202, 208?

His eyes fixates on the flat number, furrowing his brows at the last digit.

What?

Wasn't room 203 supposed to be here?

He checks over the next few doors, wondering why the number system resumes from there, with flat 205 right down to 210, but with flat 208 to have the 230th room number on it, which is probably on the floor above the one he stood on.

What the fuck? Did they somehow mix the chronology? Nothing's adding up around here.

Taking his chances, he knocks right at flat bearing 208 on the side, waiting for a person to possibly assist him, and nobody answers.

Okay. Something is definitely fucking going on here.

He twists the knob, only to find it surprisingly open, like it's a free-for-all for anybody who was willing to take a sneak peek into some luxurious flat, and possibly 'borrow' an expensive wine collection, or to purchase a 32-inch television for a set of defective jeans.

With an idle shake to his head, he enters in through the threshold, murmuring a soft prayer under his breath that had a few too many curses, rather than actual biblical references.

"Hel--" He chokes, when he takes on his surroundings. Steam was literally pouring out of an adjoining room, there are sketches upon sketches of bananas, to something more complex such as the the Vitruvian Man, and the Thinker. Which is pretty impressive in itself, but he didn't have much time to appreciate the art when there is a piercing screech that echoes throughout the whole flat, jarring his ear drums to popping along with the sound.

His feet thumps quietly on the cherry wood floor, where he flings himself towards the oversized bathroom encased in pure ivory, only to almost slip at the doorway. Now that he sees it, there is also a massive flood that dripped from bathroom, right down to where Louis stood. Fuck. How the hell did he expect to get to the other side without falling?

Deciding for his better judgement, he removes his socks from his feet, and shove them messily inside his Van's, and settling them upon the doorway. Approaching the scene with caution, and holding onto the rocky walls that are conveniently within reach to aid him in his quest for dear life, he ambles himself towards the origination of the cries.

As he approaches, his hearing began to sound muffled, and his breath to be ragged. He hadn't done very many exercises in his whole 25 years of existence, and he reckons that his age is finally starting to catch up with him. He really should've taken up Liam's offer to going to a gym on one of his hyperactive days. It all made sense now.

When he can finally locate his own bearing, Louis wipes a cold hand towards his damp temples, before locating a lone figure who wore nothing but a soft pink towel and nothing else, cross-legged as he sat on a matching-coloured yoga mat, his bronze curly hair sagging into messy bunches at his neck. He also had this piercing pale green eyes, who payed no attention to anything but the tattoo that he's actually applying onto himself, a small v formed permanently on the center of his brows, bottom lip trapped by his upper teeth. There is a large stereo set opposite of him, nestled onto a water-free coffee table, playing high-pitched opera soundtracks that played to the maximum.

"Hey." Louis rasps, but came out as a small wisp, compared to the latter. "Hey there." He tries to call out, but the curly-haired boy just simply couldn't hear him, or wasn't even paying attention, he wasn't too sure.

With a determined huff, he heads over towards the source of the noise, reaching over the boy's head to possibly turn down the sound, but he was stopped when felt a strong grip to his arm.

"I heard you the fucking first time." The boy voices out in a low vibrato. "What the hell are you still doing here? Can't you tell I'm in the middle of doing something?"

Louis pulls his arm away, cradling it softly to his chest, connecting gaze with the green-eyed monster. "Well, I wouldn't have to fucking even do anything if you'd just lowered the damn volume down, when I called for you."

Curly raises a challenging brow, cleaning off his supplies, and settling them down on their proper location: within a flap of expensive leather, before continuing from where he sat, staring up at Louis with defiance.

"You wouldn't have to hear anything, or even have the need to speak with me, if you hadn't entered my home."

"Your flat door was open."

"Doesn't mean that you can just enter through them."

"Yes I can, when I'm trying to ask you a bloody question." Louis barks, crossing his arms authoritatively.

Young Mic Jagger looked amused at that, dialing down the opera music till there's no other sounds other than their own breathing.

"Oh?" He muses, tilting his head to the side. "So you come inside people's home, _just_ to ask them a question? Sounds might shady, if you ask me."

"Shady?" Louis snorts, rolling his eyes. "You think I'm shady? Why don't you tell me that, when you find me clad in nothing but my boxers--"

"How do you know I'm wearing anything beneath this towel?"

"--tattooing myself, while listening to some opera singer, loud enough to wake the entire city."

"Didn't you miss the light tint of blue sky?" The curly-haired bastard reminds, wrapping the towel dangerously low to his waist, then yanks at Louis' hand to help himself up. "I'm pretty sure it's morning, mate, so I'd doubt anybody would be too bothered with my music."

Louis flushes slightly, but refuses to be looked down upon, refuses to let this arrogant, pompous ass--who thinks he owns the world--to downgrade him.

"But wouldn't people start to wonder about some screaming they hear? You don't exactly look the role of a hearts and flowers guy to get away with murder."

And he snorts. "Who said I was? I wasn't exactly expecting anybody to just raid my flat, you know? Haven't even had the chance to set out the fine china."

"Oh don't flatter yourself." Chimes Louis. "I wouldn't even dream of attending anything relating this flat."

Curly rolls his eyes, bare feet padding along the bathroom floor, and heading over to his walk-in closet, with Louis trailing after him. Although, he does allow the boy some privacy, providing a large distance for him to change in, while Louis plops himself on a large cozy couch, with tousles and blankets thrown over them, definitely trying not to look like a lost lamb in the expanse of this lavish, expensive flat.

"Looking awfully comfy there," the curly haired twit voices, as he maneuvers around the kitchen, in a soft white shirt, along with a freshly pressed silver joggers. "You sure you wouldn't want anything to do with this flat?"

"Oh, I'm sure." Louis affirms with a nod. Wait. "You sound awfully like you actually enjoy my company."

Dimples rolls his eyes, and there might possibly be a hint of a smile on the corner of his mouth. Louis couldn't exactly sleuth while remaining inconspicuous.

"I'm just saying it in propriety." he starts. "Haven't you any manners, stranger?"

"I don't care for manners if it's not reciprocated."

"Demanding reciprocation in manners is simply bad mannerism. I'd assumed that you were taught to at least jest or act polite if you'd like to be treated well."

"Don't think I could do that, nor can I see you ever treating me with anything other than some sort of novel-worthy insult, don't you think?"

"Why thank you." Curly replies, clutching his hand close to his heart. "I'd like to thank the academy."

Louis groans, swiping a hand at his face. "You know, what? I think I'd like to leave." Before I can carry on with a possible homicide.

"It's quite fascinating that you'd even survived this long, conversing with me." He states, almost sounding genuine, but then he didn't know this guy well enough to be able to differentiate between the two. "But don't let the door hit you on your way out, kay?" His hands flap at the general direction of the door, without looking at Louis.

Louis shoves his dried feet back--minus the stinky socks--back onto his his feet hurriedly, rushing towards the door in agile haste, before pausing as he reaches for the door knob.

"But wait," he calls out, shifting awkwardly, as the curly haired boy struts towards where he stood, not-so-subtly pushing him out the open doors, raising a curious eyebrow. "You still haven't answered my question."

"You still haven't asked _the_ question." He annunciates, smirking proudly like he's so clever.

He coughs, scratching his neck. Why is he suddenly awkward? What was the difference in speaking outside the flat than inside?

"Do you know if Harry Styles lives anywhere near here?"

And it's as if he'd been stung, that Curly's face shifts to a horrible grimace, his eyes transition to a darker shade.

"Who wants to know, exactly?"

"Well, this guy--"

"Nope." And the doors immediately close at his face before he can react.

What the hell?

What was that?

He doesn't know why, exactly, but he finds himself knocking again, this time preparing a seething leer, the moment Curly cracks the door open.

"What?" He asks, shoulders tense, and hands clenched into tight fists. "Didn't I just say that he doesn't live here?"

"No, I know." Louis swallows nervously. "Just that, you close the door so quickly, that I couldn't voice out a proper farewell."

But it seemed that Curly is not in the mood for taking shit, throwing him a flat look, an eyebrow raised.

"Well?"

And right at the moment his phone started ringing with Zayn's name on the screen. Embarrassed by the ringtone that consisted of the Spice Girls _Wannabe_ , he gives a curt bow of the head, before discreetly answering the phone call, attention at his own footing as he heads towards the elevator.

"Louis!" Screams Zayn, shattering his ear drums momentarily. Why do people choose today to harass his hearing? "How had your day been? Did you find the place okay?"

Louis lets out a defeated sigh, unaware that the door never closed, as he stifles through his hair, frustrated. "I couldn't find him, you fucker. Did you send me the wrong address?"

There's a pause, where none of them said a word, and Louis presses the down button for the elevator.

"Uh, no?" That sounded like a question? Why did it sound like a question? "Are you sure you looked at the address correctly?"

Louis groans, hearing the quiet ping of doors opening. "I'm pretty sure, Zayn, I--" "--oh hold on, I'm getting in the elevator. Gimme a second."

"Can you hold the door please?" A voice suddenly asks.

"Sure." He replies, pressing the doors open for the man to enter. When he doesn't, he pokes his head out through the door, only to find the same curly-haired man-child that he's sure is the epitome of insanity. "Hey, aren't you--Oh."

"So you're Louis Tomlinson?" Curly questions, smiling brightly towards Louis, eyes bright and ecstatic almost--something proving to be a massive contradiction to the boy's countenance before he left.

He didn't know if he could trust his own voice, so he affirms with a nod.

Curly man-boy's expression is gone as fast as it came, and now he's sporting something akin to anger, holding out a massive paw to him.

"Nice to finally meet you. I'm Harry Styles."


	2. Arrangement.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it gets even worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case for any future misconceptions, I'm sure that Harry's usually not like this (or at least from what I've witnessed in this fandom--not that I'm saying he does this in his free time), but it is an AU, and he's a whole different person in this...probably.

-

 

"Zayn, you told me that your friend wasn't a jerk."

Zayn gawks at the screen, staring at Louis, wide-eyed. Even had the decency to looked confused, and baffled by the comment.

"Excuse you." He says, crossing his arms, eyeing him scoldingly. "I've never once told you anything about Harry, other than the necessary details for your job."

Louis snorts, mirroring his friend. "Uh, yeah. You didn't." He agrees, huffing slightly. This isn't fair.

If he had figured out that this Harry Styles was as difficult as a four year-old child who was raised to be king--someone who he claimed to be, but is nowhere near close--then he never would've agreed to ever taking on this job. God. He is so infuriated. He can even lug Liam in the abs for good measures; something he's been planning for quite a while now. "But it would've been nice to at least hint it out before I signed my soul up to the devil."

Zayn rolls his eyes, shifting in his (Louis') bean bag chair that he had taken from Louis' flat, prior his trip to Paris.

"Didn't I say that the doctors found him difficult to deal with?" He asks. "I mean, I didn't know you were that dense, Lou."

"How dare you?!" Gasps Louis. Say what now? "Why do you expect me to listen to every detail of everything you said? Let alone infer from that, when I can make my own opinions of how he was, and base it off of from my own view."

"And?" Zayn raises a brow, smiling brightly with the grainy pixels in his screen to accentuate to the mocking quality of his voice. "What exactly did you think of him?"

"I think he's the most selfish, arrogant, pompous, insolent, moody man-child I have ever had the pleasure of adding, and successfully achieving close to the top of my hit list in the very little time I've known him." He surmises, nodding to prove his superiority. "Right below you, for fucking getting me stuck with this job."

"Oh come on, Louis." His friend snorts. "I'm sure Harry wasn't that bad." And he looked so easy going with it, like he thought Louis' pulling the rug on him.

"Wasn't that bad? _Wasn't that bad?!_ You do realize that in an attempt of getting me screwed over, he fucking switched the numbers for the flat, just so he could mess with me, trying to find him around the building?"

"But how exactly did you know that, that was his doing, though?" Zayn questions pointedly. "Maybe the building is understaffed and are unable to fix the whole mishap, and couldn't even bother to fix it? You can't just antagonize him just because you two had unpleasant first impressions."

That is true, but Louis isn't having it.

If he had checked all the rooms, like Harry had planned, then he's sure that he'd be going around in circles, trying to trail after a boy who refuses to be found.

"That may be true--" or it may not, it's inconclusive. "--but you wouldn't believe how he had reacted when we met."

"And how did he react, exactly?" Zayn snickers, eyeing the screen as if he's watching another one of Niall's R-rated comedies relating a donkey and an overgrown man.

"Okay, when I found him, he was inside his bathroom, scribbling in another tattoo on his arm, stark naked, with a pink towel on top of his area, and a yoga mat to match."

"Most people would be turned on by that." Zayn hums playfully. The traitor. "Just saying. Tattoos _and_ in the nude?" He fans himself over-exaggeratedly to prove his point.

"Well, I wasn't." Louis wills away his dirty thoughts of the curly haired bastard--wearing nothing underneath all that pink--lying through his teeth, and chewing on his lower lip. "Beside, how could I? I almost slipped trying to find the source of screaming from his flat, only to find that he had his opera soundtrack playing to-the-max on his boom box.

"And when I tried to turn it off, he gets all pissed off, and snaps at me for even being in his home."

"Well, you did break into his flat, once you think about it." Zayn points out. "I mean, if it was you, wouldn't you have acted the same when you see someone enter your flat uninvited?"

"But the door was open already, so I didn't really break in, if we're going by logistics here, Zee."

Zayn rolls his eyes, unamused. "So you didn't enter his flat without his permission?"

Louis swallows, feeling his cheeks heat up, all-of-a-sudden thankful, that the room was dark enough for Zayn to bypass the pink hue on his cheeks.

"Well I did." He confesses, pressing a hand on the back of his neck, a sheepish expression on his face. "But he didn't have to act like an ass about it, you know?"

Zayn huffs. "Lou, you know his reaction was the mildest treatment you would've gotten as opposed to a man with a gun, don't you think?"

Louis swallows. It's true.

His friend takes his silent as an agreement. "So instead of just complaining to me about how much of an arse Harry had been to you," ouch. "--don't you think that it's the safe to say that your encounter with him--to the extent--was not as bad as it could've been?"

Louis nods obediently, but plays with his fingertips.

Zayn blinks at the screen, wiping a hand over his face.

"Look, Lou." He sighs, carding a frustrated hand through his hair. "I'm not mad at you, or anything." Is that what he thinks? That he's a petulant child up for scolding? "--I am amused by our weekly Skype dates--believe me. It's just.." He sighs again. "It's been a rough day, ever since I had to fly back. Had to catch up on some lectures, and I..." Then trails off with a small, humorless chuckle.

Louis grins, looking up. "Art is that bad, huh?"

Zayn seemed to sense the change in the atmosphere, the air between them just felt lighter, less constricting, and he nods his head. Good. "Yeah, no." He breathes, sitting back from his chair, relieved, lucid even. "It's great, just.. pressure, you know? And I hadn't been able to chat with Liam after I flew back. I just.. I miss him, Lou."

Louis nods, understanding, chest tightening in anticipation. "And you're just absorbing my negative vibes--something that's completely unnecessary--I'm sorry, Zayn."

"Nonono." Zayn exclaims, jumping closer to the screen, brown eyes wide and doe-looking. "It's not your fault, man. 'S all me, don't feel bad, yeah?" He amends. "I'm just a shit person, and you don't deserve that."

"Zayn--"

"No, Louis." He releases a breath. "You deserved better than that. I'm not supposed to just criticize you for opening up to me--took a long time to achieve that far with you. I'm not going to just throw that away."

Louis felt a tug at the corner of his lips. "I was a little shit back then, wasn't I?"

"You're just as much of a little shit right now, as you were back then." Barks out Zayn, roaring in laughter. "But to fuck with Harry, you know? If life gives you lemons, give them lemonade."

He rolls his eyes, unamused. "I swear, if you try more of that psychological bs you've been reading in fortune cookies, I'm going to fly first thing in the morning to Paris, and wring your neck myself, Malik."

"They're good advice." Zayn pouts, yawning. "But think about it, yeah?"

Louis raises a brow. "About what, exactly?"

"Why--out of all people that I knew--I picked you, and not them."

And this is coming from an up-and-coming artist in both France and half of Europe. Having connections is essential for his job.

"Oh stop, you're making me blush Zee."

He winks to the camera. "Got you to smile, didn't it?"

Louis snorts, grin widening. "Yeah." And. "Thanks."

"See you."

"Bye."

-

When Louis arrives the next morning, there are paparazzi swarming the front door. Baffled, he squeezes in through the front entrance with the sounds of flashes and questions of inane topics serving as another wave of nuisance towards Louis' hatred to the world, that is, until he hears a familiar name being thrown into the air.

"Harry Styles---"

"----true that Harry Styles is filed in for assault?"

And his stomach churns by the sound.

What even was happening right now?!

"We were informed that Harry Styles would be here!"

"Where is he?!"

The barrage of inquiries was just maddening. There are flashes everywhere, some girls trying to squeeze in through the thick walls of the media, and expensive cameras and boom mics.

Why were they even here?

The security guard by the doors cracks the hinges open, just enough for Louis to pull through, and yank himself (along with a duffel bag riddled with some necessities, such as crisps, bubble gum, a chocolate bar, and other essentials like some headphones, and an iPod brimming with a few of his favourite albums), muffling the commotion outside, and flinging himself towards the elevator towards Harry's room.

He didn't know what was going on, but he reckons that curly-haired idiot might have had something to do with it.

-

As he was approaching Harry's flat, he is met with yet another surprise.

Instead of switched numbering on the flat numerating system (it's sorted in the right order--for now), 203 is located where it's supposed to be, but what got his attention, was the that the door lock is busted open, like somebody hacked an axe on its card system and the shards of wood to lay brokenly at the doorway, leaving the entrance open (like the entrance to a crime scene), and eerily inviting.

This worried him a little.

Rushing over towards a slew of middle-aged woman who looked as pale as sheets when approached, he finally manages to rush over to the living room where he freezes in his tracks, a gash of cold wind slicing through his skin.

Long gone were the scattered papers, folded up old sheets of music, and pieces of art on the floor. And in its place was long limbs, pallid skin, and blue lips. Blood stained the boy's lips, and his eyes stare at the ceiling, unseeing, glazed, and...blank. Something crimson--like a flower almost--is splattered on the center of his chest. There is a splash of dark liquid behind his back, soaking irreparably through the material of his floral shirt.

The lad was just fine when he left him yesterday.

It couldn't be him.

Was this a joke? A prank? Because he's sure nobody's up for any form of laughter at the moment.

That really is Harry's body down there... isn't it?

His knees buckle instantly, like tripping over flat ground. His head felt heavy, his body felt heavy, fuck, even his heart felt heavy.

Just a few hours ago, he had been complaining about how much he had wanted to rib this bloke in the gut, how constantly he claimed that he had wanted to open up his stomach to string his internal organs into a pretty necklace and show it off to Zayn as another form of his conquests, but he never expected for things to end like this, never expected to just see him dead, and unseeing, when--as much as he had hated to admit it--he could see something from his little encounter yesterday, something that he wasn't even entirely sure of, something--

A low chuckle echoes throughout the room, just when Louis feels something fill the corner of his eyes, he stares at the movement of Harry's chest in what appeared to be pure horror to the 4th-degree.

"Oh my god." The boy cackled, sitting up from his position, brushing off nonexistent dust from his shirt. "I'd have expected an expulsion of piss, but tears?" He continues, laughing, laughing, laughing. Laughing like he he wasn't just dead for a few seconds ago. "That is indeed quite a show you've made Mr. Tomlinson, simple but effective. I am impressed." The words were spoken in a low drawl, almost whimsical.

And what was going on? Didn't Harry die? He's still numb when the latter wipes at the corner of his eyes, doubling in laughter, and he's still numb when the bloke returns with a black button up shirt, and dark skinny jeans to match, his curls artfully disheveled atop his head. And his lips and skin are back to their original hue of porcelain and poison red wine. He's still numb.

"Ladies, thank you so much for your help. Please kindly fuck off, as I have an arrangement with dear, Mr. Tomlinson here." He announces, pushing the women away, beaming brightly, and emptily as he does so.

Each woman looked at him with fear in their eyes, like they couldn't believe much of what was happening, much less take in the information that what they've just recently witnessed first-hand was essentially a set for the clinically insane, bordering on grotesque scene for Harry's personal amusement.

When the last of them have left, and it was only Louis and Harry in the flat, is when Louis' muscles finally gain feeling. He felt bile rush up to his throat, and more tears to form at the corners of his eyes. He stares briefly at Harry's figure, with a phone pressed close to his ear, calling over for some cleaners to mop up the excess pigs blood (apparently what he had used for his deranged movie prop), before immediately retracing his steps from the day before, and lurching his head towards the toilet, and emptying the contents of his--very large he might add--brunch consisting of potato hash, some bacon, a large meaty burger, and some chips to suit the upcoming battle.

He was heaving, sputtering, and downright reenacting a food-borne illness from how fast his meal spewed down the toilet, before he wipes away the sweat that beaded along his forehead, and the leftover spit that glossed over the majority of his face.

It took a bit of mental scolding in his part for ever showing up the way he did today, the way he just literally allowed the presence of fear for that boy to posses his body and control it like a puppet on strings, and feel what was intended for him to be felt. But he finally cleaned himself exceptionally so, dabbed at his eyes with a napkin, and splashed water on his face, to once again attempt to build up the wall of resolve that he had initially built before.

He finds Harry by the recliner, blankly staring into space, until he sees Louis. It's as if there'd been a flip of a switch, that he's instantly smirking at him, while he warily eyes the pool of blood that still remained untouched and just as gruesome and potent as he had seen it earlier.

"You.. You made it look like you were dead." He whispers, as if he couldn't even begin to command his voice to induce a stronger tone.

Harry hums, smiling proudly at his work. "I suppose."

"Why?" He sputters, because this is so, so messed up. He had it all planned out: He would just simply treat Harry, like he would any other child he ever babysat, pretend to ignore them, and save all that drivel that's literally clawing at his throat right about now, and just guilt Niall or Liam into one of those hour-long soliloquies about how they are simply not there for him when he needed them, and how lonely he felt, then reach in for the kill and get their clear inquiries about the different ways that he'd most likely carry out Harry's death."Out of all the greetings I could've ever received, yours... by far is the most--"

"Thrilling? Creative? Enthralling? Take your pick Mr. Tomlinson." He says, sounding every bit of a pretentious asshole as he had made himself out to be the first time he met him. "I assure you, I thrive through compliments."

Louis rolls his eyes, sighing. It's already so hard keeping his composure with this boy. "In what universe, do you find it gratifying to scare the living shit out of anybody, to do whatever... that stupid stunt that was that you just pulled?"

"The same reason movies were created." He answers simply, shrugging. "To spice up reality, don't you agree?"

And... as much as he'd want to point out the aversion of yet another one of his questions (or at least had not provided a suitable answer to his said question), he couldn't help but feel that there is some underlying truth beneath those words, but he can't exactly be too sure, so he stashes it on the back of his head for later.

"And the hacking on the door?" Inquires Louis. "Was that your doing too?"

At that, Harry chuckles, nodding. "Couldn't stage a proper homicide if there wasn't some sort of penetration from the outside, you know?"

"That's what she said." Louis rolls his eyes. "How did you get all those women in here anyway?"

"Oh, those middle-aged extras?" He asks, to which Louis nods in return. "Well, same way you made your way in." He states. "Though a bit less inquisitive, more prying."

Louis' stomach is working overtime. "So they just made their way inside your flat?" He questions. "Just fucking crowded in, for no reason? No reason at all?"

"Yep." Harry answers, yanking the door open for the cleaners to begin mopping up the bloody mess--literally--from the floor. "Other than possibly hearing some screeching from a YouTube video I was watching earlier. I have absolutely no idea as to why they would swarm around here." He affirms from the doorway, indifferent.

Is this boy naturally stupid?

Or is he doing this to get a rise out of Louis?

"Let me guess?" He huffs. "Somebody else--other than me is calling you out on your acquired taste in music?"

Harry actually smirks at that. "No, I was actually trying to look for some decent audio to add to the ambience when you arrived for your first day." He actually pouts at that. Who the fuck is even this kid? "But those women made my job all the more difficult by snapping their little devices on me--probably to post them online for some sob story on the articles for 15 minutes of fame, so I actually had to pretend to be dead longer than I had initiated." He admits, wiping a nonexistent sweat from his forehead, before his expression darkens. "Though that little expression you had back there, was a bit... putrid.."

Louis cells ignite instantly.

"Putrid?" He screeches. "You found my expression _putrid_? What the _fuck_ is wrong with you, Styles? I.. I fucking cried, because I thought... I thought you just... died."

Harry snorts, rolling his eyes. "And one would question as to why that would be." He smirks, but his expression remain impassive. "Oh wait, I remember. My father's paying you to deal with me and my issues."

Stab. That's what it felt like when those words had dropped out of the boy's mouth. He'd never once thought about his job when he saw Harry lying pliantly in the living room... Did he?

"I don't, what are you--"

"Let me rephrase that." Harry takes a step forward towards him, close enough that his cold, polished, delicate skin brushes idly from Louis' cheeks to his jaw, before pulling away. "You're afraid that if I had died, that will be the end to your only source of income."

"T-That's not true!" He stutters, stepping back, as if he'd been burned. He hates how weak his voice had sounded. "I didn't even think about the job... You.. I..." Louis had no idea what to say. What was he trying to say exactly?

"Oh?" Harry looked amused, smirking challengingly, stepping forward to compensate for the distance that Louis had placed between the two of them. His face lost its walls (or maybe he's just hiding it a little too well), but his eyes had looked to be another shortcut to oblivion: dark, and desolate, like a lost civilization after a tsunami had hit it. "So what were you thinking about? Dead puppies? The 9/11? I sense a fallacy. What say you, Mr. Tomlinson?"

"I--"

"Or maybe.." And now Harry's so close, so fucking close that Louis could smell the scent of pressed linen and expensive perfume emitting from the boy. And those lips, those soft red lips that kissed the mark of death without so much as a blink of an eye, defies the very nature of beauty, as it manages picturesque perfection while venom runs rampant in its veins for the foolish, mocking Louis' line of vision.

Harry's breath is brushing along his neck, his ears. He's lost all his ability to push away. He vaguely feels a current pass through his arms. "You're just in it for the fame."

And at that very moment, Louis felt cheap, felt like a motherfucking garbage truck had just made a personal delivery at his doorstep. Like he'd been spanked in front of toddlers as a form of punishment, and watch them watch him as he took the pain on every skin-on-skin contact.

What is even happening?!

Did he just refer to Louis as a gold-digger? A fame hog? A homeless man? Maybe all three?

What the fuck?!

What.the.actual.fuck!

Who did this arrogant son-of-bitch think he was? Some cheap whore that can easily be picked up from the streets?

Hell no. Hell-to-the-fucking-no.

He'd never--not once--ever let a man, let alone a person ever look down on him, _ever_ made him feel like his relevance to the world is but a minimized stint, a lapse in time, never anything to be quite honest, that is if you' count the relentless insults, vulgar languages, or maybe a bit of angry profanities, but that was just about it, to be honest.

And just because, he's what? A successful ex-boybander's son? A beautiful socialite under a large magnifying glass? That makes him an exception? Fuck no.

Something in Louis snaps at that moment.

It's no wonder he'd always been known for his short fuse.

"Who...the _fuck_... do you think you are?" He hisses, eyes narrowing into small slits. He might've imagined it, but Harry appeared to have inched back a little. "Who the fuck do you think you are, to have the right to treat me like I'm just some chewed up gum that gets stuck on some unfortunate bloke's shoe?"

And his jaw his instantly clenching, both his hands tightly gripping onto nothing on their respective sides. "What gave you the fucking right, to just... Just look down on me, like you fucking know me--know my _life_ , and spit all over it, like-like I didn't struggle to get where I fucking am at this moment in time, and instantly be born in the spotlight like you fucking did, and be granted the damn universe on a silver platter."

Harry recoils at every whiplash of his words, distancing himself further (okay, so he might've not imagined it). But what he doesn't know, is that Louis' burning, burning as if he's on fire, burning like he's a shy away from the sun.

In turn, he replaces the growing distance by crowding closer to Harry, making sure he sees every bit of Louis, sees the ignition of his soul right before him, enough to launch a rocket.

"So don't you dare refer to me as another piece of furniture to replace," he swallows, feeling the rack of shivers to ooze away from his body, to immediately leak out of his pores one-by-one, like a some sort of domino effect. "When I can at least proudly say that I'm a center piece."

And silence.

He was barely even aware of what it was he said actually (felt like a very happy dream if he was being quite honest), even felt downright proud of himself that he could get the word out with minimal stutters.

Though he's exactly not sure he's ready for another round--he'd give it another day with this bloke--it'd be enough to at least power his insults into overdrive, so that he can--

Laughter snaps him out of his reverie.

Laughter?

Harry's laughing?

He's laughing?!

Wasn't he--just a second ago--shocked beyond belief? Probably in awe of Louis' passionate speech, that he's decided that he's done with the insults, that he'll be a more cooperative with the job? Is that why he was laughing? So that they'd both laugh in unison, and possibly start of normal, and begin a camaraderie, where they might probably share some secrets, and connect views on his favourite footy team?

Please, oh, _please_ , let it be the latter.

Harry's dabbing at his eyes now with his sleeve, giggling as he does, regarding Louis in peripherals, before shifting his mood (yet again), into something more indescribable, and... ambiguous, like there is too much going on within the surface, some stirring maybe? He's not entirely sure.

"For such fiery breath to come out from your nostrils, Mr. Tomlinson." He shakes his head, bowing it temporarily, then focusing back on Louis, chuckling lightly, almost as if he's just finished his favourite past time. "Who could ever expect such spitfire from such a petite frame?" He applauds. "To rouse a baby dragon is to feel it's wrath."

He just called him short...right?

How had the tables turned so quickly? He was just on the verge of recovery.

"Excuse me, but didn't you get anything from what I just said?" He asks, trying to keep his teeth from grinding together, when Harry rubs at his chin thoughtfully.

"I may have caught on to a word, or two." He confirms idly with a nod. "But it's like reading into an autobiography of some modern day individual; ungodly repetitive and inane as one might say."

Louis' about this close to begin pulling his hair out. _This_ close. Which is why he's simply backing away, backing away so that he can distance himself from this tom foolery, this child's play that Harry's once again successfully lassoed him into, backing away so that he wouldn't even have to _breathe_ the same air as this...this blithe buffoon.

He grabs his bag from where it sat on the carpet where he had left it earlier, not once taking his eyes off of Harry, who beamed, almost as if he's amused of Louis' movements, casually meandering towards the direction Louis was headed, even courteously taking longer strides to open the door for him, to which he collides shoulder-to-shoulder with him in his last attempt of retaliation.

Of course that didn't work because he can literally feel the delight vibrating from the boy's body when he started grumbling  _crucio_ to himself, willing it to be true, and pressing aggressively at the button for the elevator.

"Oh, and Mr. Tomlinson?"

He almost hisses, when he sees Harry jog up towards him, smirking, as if smug. Why?

"I sure do hope you'd already began packing your belongings." He says, watching Louis, as his gaze turns inquisitive, bereft of words.

"What do you mean by that... exactly?" He asks, entering towards the awaiting doors, and pressing directly at the 'G' for the elevator to take him to ground floor--anywhere where he can't see that curly haired twit would be solace if he was being quite honest. He jerks his hand towards the 'close doors' button repeatedly.

Harry furrows his brows, a light frown grazing his lips.

"Haven't you studied the contract in its fine print?" He quizzes, raising a brow. Louis says nothing. Harry continues. "In order for our companionship program to be both cleansing and substantial, it will require for the employee--that is you--to temporarily relocate your sleeping quarters to my humble abode. Weren't you aware of that already? I’d presumed my father had spoken to you about this matter."

And the elevator doors slide to a close, before Harry could get another word in. Anymore would've been suicide, but his mind is processing, marinating, buffering?

The sadistic boy's parting words seemed to articulate like molasses in Louis' brain, almost as if he's receded too far into his own head to process everything, too slow to understand, yet fast enough to feel overwhelmed by the situation.

He is to move in with Harry tomorrow.

The contract dictates for Louis to move in with Harry: the rude, arrogant asshat of his nightmares, the epitome of insanity, the king of some foreign land that's declared war on Louis' turf, the master of ever-shifting-moods, that Harry.

What the fuck did Zayn just get him into?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized that this chapter was a bit emotional? But it's necessary, you know?
> 
> But thank you for reading, my tumblr is pidgeontoestyles if you need me!


	3. Hell's Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some issues will be adressed in this chapter, but vaguely. Thank you for waiting, here's Chapter 3!!
> 
> P.S. Any errors that may lurk in this chapter will be corrected soon enough. I apologize in advance.

-

 

_15 Day Notice to Vacate_

_Date (dd/mm/yyyy): **27/01/2015**_

_Tenant's Name: **Louis William Tomlinson**_

_Address of Rental Unit: 2 St Christophers flats, HALL FLAT LANE, Doncaster, DN4 8PX_

_This notice is to inform you that your tenancy will be terminated in **FIFTEEN days** from the date of service of this notice._

_You are required to vacate the premises and remove all your possessions from the premises by this date: **February 10th, 2015**. All keys to the premises are be to returned upon your move out._

_All rent and bills for the premises will be payable until the termination date._

Louis swipes a hand at his face, gripping the letter with the other.

_15 days._

_He had 15 days till his lease will run out, and he will need cash in a cheque, paying where the money is due, and it won't be stuck in his hair for yet another month._

Not that he was short on bills (even with his minimum wage of £8 per hour rate), but he figured, that somehow, some way, the gods may have been testing him--testing his patience like Psyche with Eros, seeing as he coincidentally had to move in with Harry tomorrow.

Then he remembered paying Des Styles a small phone call after his visit to Harry's flat, indicating the contents of the contract, and clarifying him on the details of his vacancy. As per written in the contract, there is a 4-month trial period where Louis will be required to attend to Harry's activities, and plans during his stay (in other words, whether he is truly well-suited for the job).

In that time, he will be provided of Harry's daily schedule, and is responsible for keeping him out of trouble, and inhibiting him to relapse from his addiction. The contract allows him free days--in the condition of whenever Harry does, but is still required to stay within the curly-haired boy's radius in case of unplanned changes. He is allowed to back out of the contract, after 2 months, if he will serve an invaluable reason to do so, and is required by clause number (3.2) in the contract agreement that if any secrets are to somehow leak to the media regarding Louis' stay, then he will definitely be sued for both blackmail and breach of the contract that fines around 3-4 million pounds in bail money--way more than his initial pay would ever be. His payment will also be checked directly towards his account tax-free, and any raise or changes to the original will be discussed prior to the intended date.

So in other words, he is required to have is own time, he is paid most definitely, just so long as he could keep a close eye on Harry.

The idea didn't sit too well with Louis, seeing as he _will_ be required to shadow along Harry's footsteps 24/7, to prevent him from doing whatever fuckery the arsehole was willing to pull, and is required to take desperate measures to maintaining the unsullied, untainted image of the Styles family--meaning, he is pretty much screwed.

He could barely even survive an hour with the moron, and now he's required to assist him 24 hours a day whenever he's needed. This job is even more demanding than his previous one (by a fucking long shot), that it made complete sense that he's being paid in such large amounts every month. He is paid not not only in his assistance to keeping Harry in check, but also having to deal with the latter at a day to day basis.

He can already envision the plethora of headaches settling in like a jackhammer drilling at his temple, and he's only at day one.

At this rate, he'll definitely have to find a way to not only kill Harry, but also himself if he had to deal with the ego-centric jackass everyday.

He is beginning wonder whether it's too late to back out now.

-

It's when he's decided that he couldn't fold for shit is when his door bursts open.

Perplexed, he whips his head to find Liam and Niall at his doorstep with transparent bags full of Chinese takeout from down the road, and some cheap whiskey bottles sticking out from at least the majority of them.

The smell of curry, and spring rolls permeates the air, immediately making his mouth water.

"Honey, I'm home!" Niall bellows, just in time that Liam shouts in an equally stupid comment: "Come give me a kiss, sweetums." Till to this day, he questions why he'd even befriended these boys.

He sighs.

"What are you fuckers doing here at--" he stares at his phone time, before resuming. "--A quarter past seven?"

The two merely blinked at him, shaking the contents in the plastic bags at dangerous lurches, the bottles hopping, and tipping closely towards the opening of the bag, as if that was answer enough, before meandering towards where Louis was uncomfortably crouched beside his ratty crouch.

When their eyes sets toward the pre-made boxes, full of Louis' book collection, and a separate box with all of Louis' superhero figurines were stored, a flicker of confusion washes over their expression.

"Uh, Lou." Niall steps in closer, huddling close to Louis. "Were you planning on doing some kind of I-don't-really-have-garage, garage sale?"

Before he can come up with a reply, Liam merely smacks Niall on the back of the head scoldingly, earning a hiss from the boy, and a jab to the arm.

"Don't be stupid, Niall." He huffs, crossing his arms, as he distances himself to--no doubt--prevent any future retaliation from the Irish bloke. "He's obviously boxing up because he's moving in with someone."

Louis flinches. Why did Liam choose this time specifically to not be stupid, and not over rationalize into what the ordeal really is, and provide him with some comedy-worthy lines like: 'Selling his valuables for a trip to the Bahamas' or 'Donating his stuff to charity in result to his newly renowned dedication towards his religion'. But to guess it spot on. Well, maybe he's more clever than Louis'd given him credit for.

His expression might've given away something (seeing as his expression is usually what indicated how he felt--it's a trademark), because they widened their eyes in realization.

"Louis?" Niall tilts his head quizzically. "Are you really moving in with someone?"

"A relative perhaps?" Liam quips, raising a brow.

Louis scratches at the back of his head, unable to look at his friends in the eye.

"It's complicated."

"Ooh, don't tell me it's one of those 'boyfriend' type of complication, is it?" Asks Niall, wiggling his brows. "Because if you're hiding a relationship behind our backs, then I swear, I'll--"

"Harry's not my boyfriend!" Louis immediately interjects. Crap. Did he just mention Harry's name? Moreover, double crap. Boyfriend? BOYFRIEND?! Don't make him laugh. There is no way he'd ever acknowledge that lowlife at any kind of relationship status, let alone a boyfriend. Plus, the bloke's not even close to anything relating a human being, so it wouldn't work out either way.

"So his name is Harry, then?" Liam smirks, cajoling Niall to stand with him, so they can both scrutinize Louis from where they stood, like a bug under a microscope. "Do we know any Harry's, Ni?"

Niall taps his chin for a second, before shaking his head.

"No, not that I know of."

"Bummer." Liam pouts, tightening his arms on his chest.

Is he being serious right now? Didn't Zayn ask him to babysit the lad, while he was in Louis' flat? That didn't make sense. Can Liam be this dense? Apparently so.

"Besides, how did you guys get in anyway? The flat's locked." He truly hopes that they wouldn't notice the deliberate change in subject, because he's not even sure if he was even allowed to disclose any information to the public, which meant that Liam and Niall are prohibited to ever knowing of the contract's existence. Not that they would ever sell anything out, but he feels the need to be protective of his new job. For now anyways.

Thankfully, these two had an attention span of a goldfish.

"Easy," Niall says, as he begins rifling through the endless bags, and setting up the meal on the table, lids open, while Liam grabs the plastic cutlery, napkins, and polystyrene cups to be placed with the food in front of worn faded blue box stools that came with the flat. "Everybody knows of the key-under-the-plant scheme, Louis, so it's not exactly hard to find a spare key."

"Plus, we saw you use it every time you forget where your keys were when we brought you home pissed drunk a couple of times, remember?" Liam informs, taking a seat in one of the boxes, watching Niall and Louis follow suit, before eagerly digging in his sesame seed chicken meal.

It's no wonder Zayn was able to get into his flat the other day. Why wasn't he even aware that they knew of his secret location?!

He really needed to remember to bring his original copy out more often.

But then he's moving tomorrow, so that's another thought down the drain, unless Harry owns a potted plant by his front door, then he'd have think about it.

-

About halfway within the meal did Niall pop open the whiskey, pouring a cup for Liam. Then--as if he notices Louis' attention on him--wiggling the brown bottle at Louis' face playfully, insinuating whether he wanted some also, to which he shakes his head with an apologetic smile.

"As much as I'd wanted to get pissed drunk, I can't." And that's definitely an understatement. He _needed_ to get hammered.

"Why the bloody hell not?" Niall questions. "'S not like you're working tomorrow."

"Because I can't." Insists Louis. He can not show up with a damn hangover when he goes to see Harry tomorrow to contribute further to the pain. He's already having a hard time _thinking_ as to how he'd even survive even having to look at Harry for more than 5 hours, let alone having to spend a non-negotiable time frame of 2 months. "We can't all just wake up midday looking like a princess, can we?" He asks, eyeing Niall pointedly, who blows him a kiss.

"He's Irish." Liam states proudly, wrapping an elated arm around the Irish lad. "How does the saying go? When you've got a hangover, drink another shot?"

Louis rolls his eyes. It's no surprise that he's already beginning to see Zayn's influence on him with the fortune cookies. He is boyfriend's with a lad who sat through a months worth of lecture on philosophy before giving up halfway to take art instead.

"Of course." He snorts. "Because being drunk all day solves everything."

"There's a poet who gets drunk a lot--Edgar something, or whatever, and he's famous." Niall supplies uselessly, pouring himself another generous amount of pure whiskey, and downing it without blinking an eye. This boy is an animal.

"You mean Edgar Allen Poe?" Louis corrects, sighing. "At least he can actually make something with being drunk, other than to muck around with a couple of birds who're clearly have the hots for each other."

"Oi!" Niall screeches, pounding on the table with his fist. Liam flinches a tad bit, but remains quiet, diligently devouring his meal akin to an obedient puppy who's keen on pleasing his owners by finishing off his food bowl. "I'll have you know, that, that was one time. _One_." Then. "When are you ever going to let that go?"

"Only when you stop the quota of getting pissed drunk as a panacea." Hums Louis.

"Just take my heart and soul why don't you!" Whines Niall, feigning a sob to his hands.

Louis grumbles vehemently on his plastic cup containing tap water, while Liam tends to Niall, murmuring comforting things to his ear.

Yep. This is going to be a _long_ night.

-

"So, you never really did mention as to why you were moving." Liam mentions, when Niall decides to start slurring out to Kanye West's _I am a God_ from his phone, and screaming out of Louis' balcony like a loon, scaring away random pedestrians down by the road with his shirt off, and half a bottle of absinthe on his hand that he'd nicked off one of his new girlfriend's (who was coincidentally an owner of a local pub--not) stash, and was apparently too high off her arse to notice anything than her 'iridescent' skin. Right.

"The rent's lower than this one." Louis lies, tapping at his thighs. "Anything at a lower price--I'm there."

Liam seemed to take to the story (praise The Lord!), wrapping an arm around his shoulder in a comforting manner, rubbing his shoulder, like there's a possibly a bruising there. The boy is definitely a tactile one, he'll give you that. It's no wonder Zayn is pretty keen on keeping the lad; he's just like one massive teddy bear, to soothe the nerves.

"Lou," he shakes his head like a scolding parent who found out accidentally finds out about his son being gay, almost as if he was more concerned with Louis not informing him about the matter, rather than what the secret was. "If you're short on cash, I'm sure Zayn wouldn't mind much if you moved in with us till you can get back on your feet."

Louis smiles appreciatively at his friend. Even if he lied about the situation, it still warms his heart that Liam is willing to set aside space for him, even if he'd get the shitty end of the deal that came to dealing with Louis.

"Or if you don't like that idea, how's about you move in with Niall?" Liam offers, a small smile on his face, as he supervises Niall's wonky stance on the railing. "He's been mentioning lately that he'd been wanting a flatmate." He says. "Maybe he'll let you kip with him."

Louis actually snorts at that. "You're seriously telling me to room with Niall? Nymphomaniac-Niall?" Very funny.

"Hey, now." he giggles, eyeing Louis scoldingly, albeit jestly. "I'm sure he's not that bad."

Louis rolls his eyes. "Yeah, sure." He states. "Tell that to the person who had the honours of sharing a bunk with him in the summer of 0'9."

"No way!" Gasps Liam. "Was that where all that screaming came from?"

"Had to fucking glue two-plies of pillow to both my ears before I can even get a good night's rest." He admits, shivering at the memory. "And even then, that gets interrupted because--"

"No, nonono, nope!" Liam shakes his head, covering both his ears with both his hands. "Don't want to even think about it, no siree!"

"But Liam, I had to--"

And he was immediately throwing himself to the balcony with flushed cheeks, pulling Niall away out of harms way, getting his stance to be even in both footing.

Even for such a stickler, Liam's childlike innocence is still a surprise to him.

Normally, Zayn would date unattached artists, or motorcyclist, sometimes even an occasional druggy. But when he showed up with Liam in his birthday party, introducing him as 'Liam' rather than 'Flat tone' or 'Recently divorced', he would've never expected for such a turn of events. He'd have expected for Zayn to find a new individual to be intimate with for the holidays, but when they shared a New Year's kiss, and a second one, in Zayn's opening day for his art first art auction, the boy was definitely a goner.

Months pass, and Louis just sees him in every freaking auction that Zayn holds (because of a large turnout of patrons with decent offers after his opening night), including every weekends, when they decided to drink out, after a particularly horrid week, with a side of chips, and chipotle sauce.

Liam then introduces Niall as his best mate at the second meeting, and the boy just kind of stuck to the group like an extra set of limbs; carrying on a particularly awkward conversation with strongly worded profanities, and drunken slurs of dirty jokes. So yeah, that's all there is to it with their friendship as of 4 years ago (almost five if he was being quite honest), and Louis couldn't be tempted to look back at the time when it's only ever been him and Zayn.

Plus, even if they've known of each other only a couple of years, he treats these boys like his own brothers than he never had (not counting the 6 sisters and 1 baby brother back home that he currently has). Which was nice, a breath of fresh air as oppose to whiney screeches about lost scrunchies and make-overs that was once his life.

"Get back here!" Liam bellows, when Niall breaks out from his grip, giggling, as he sings Traditional Irish folk-songs at the top of his lungs, dodging every one of Liam's attempts to capture him, bolting towards Louis' bedroom.

"You'll never take me alive, you unworthy peasant!" Niall screeches, with flushed glee, hair tousled in many directions, and his pale Irish body beading with sweat.

And even with these fond thoughts circling around his head, even _that_ is dampened with the plausible fact that starting tomorrow he will be living the life of purgatory, and he's barely even gotten one third of his stuff packed.

He couldn't help but think that meeting Harry Styles has got to be a catalyst to one's own demise.

Fuck.it.all.

-

 _'There's a slight change of plan. Please go to the address provided below, as some circumstances have been breached, and certain procedures will have to be improvised.'_ An unknown text simply instructs, along with an address, and an attached photo of what the flat will look like. From the image itself, it looked far too pretentious and lavish to be even considered real, that he immediately copies down the location, and deleting the hell out of that picture, and fumbling with his copies of flat keys (along with the original), and his car keys already secured in his back pocket.

What precaution did they have to take anyway?

Surely it must've been that big of a hassle for a relocation in the original, predetermined placement.

So what might've changed now?

He had wanted to ask for further inquiries on the subject, but had failed to do so when the provider automatically responds that the number that he was trying to contact was _predisposed_ and that the text or call had not been received. He gives up on his third try, and just hauls his luggage, along with some boxes for his miscellaneous items that he had packed first thing after discussing the agreement with Des with hopes of not abandoning his only past time--something that he's sure will do him good--rather than wanting to lash at Harry's throat every five minutes.

But he doesn't question it, handing his flat keys to the landlord before setting his GPS for the appointed address.

-

By the time he got to London, and locate Harry's flat, is when Louis was taken in by the beauty of everything around him. Like, he's pretty sure he's seen the picture, have seen a grandiose entrance with 3-step marble patio, that lead to a cream awning with transparent windows that sided to a clean wooden white door, but never in his life had he ever expected to be in awe of anything in his life. The flat itself looked to be about 2, maybe three floors long with a sheen quaint glass house attached to the rooftop, and the bricks are styled in the finest ivory. There are wall mosses littering around the front windows, and there are also neat variations of rose bushes planted into exquisite, adjacent lining set at front, and yellow carnations in-between each one. The flat in itself is isolated amongst the rest, and is hidden by long lines of hedges around the area, and is riddled by untrimmed forestry right behind it.

Photographs be damned.

Louis would voice out his fascination, but he was already pressing at the buzzer through the window of his car, right by a key pad that he should really had been given the sequence for.

To his surprise, there's immediately a response, followed by a small buzzing sound.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Tomlinson?" Harry's voice echoes through the intercom.

"Fuck off, Harry." Louis massages his temple, feeling a dull headache settle in. Oh joy. He's barely spoken a sentence to the boy, and he's already getting under Louis' skin. "You know _exactly_ why I'm here, so cut the chit-chat and just let me in."

"'M afraid I'm at lost, sir." Harry replies innocently. "Don't think I'm allowed to invite insolent, uninvited guests in."

Are you fucking kidding me?

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Barks Louis, clenching his fists at the steering wheel. "I thought we already settled that I don't _act_ nice, and will never do, unless it's reciprocated."

"And I too recall, that forcing on reciprocal manners, is bad business, sir." Chimes Harry, a smirk evident in his voice, even if Louis hadn't seen him yet.

Louis snorts. "Are we really going to play this game, Styles?" Because this is really getting ridiculous.

"Oh?" He sounded surprised by the thought, taken back if you will. "I thought we were having a jolly good banter." The boy insists.

Jolly good?

Who the fuck even says that anymore?

Louis huffs. "Harry."

"Sir yes sir!" And for some strange reason he could imagine him doing a salute on the spot.

"Open the damn door. _Please_."

There was a pause, then a sigh.

"One would think that it'd take a millennia to hear such pleasantries." He mutters, almost sounding annoyed. King of mood changes much? "Do enter then, sir Tomlinson."

And the gates burst open

Onwards to Louis' personal hell.

On, on.

-

When he got up to porch steps along with his necessities, he'd have expected a cannon to go off the moment the door swings open. But what came as a surprise was there was nothing of the sort, just Harry clad in a Burberry navy trench coat, a tiger print shirt, endless midnight jeans, and chocolate suede Chelsea boots, dubiously looking at him with pink, bloodshot eyes, almost as if he hadn't gotten too much rest the day before. There are prominent purple hues coating the lower lids of his eyes, his skin is a pallor colour, and he looked to be all too ready to pass out right then and there. Was that because of the change in protocol?

He's not sure if the lad's even involved in the situation, nor did he think of himself as of any importance other than Harry's appointed (against his will if he's being quite honest) guiding companion to aid with his rehabilitation. And, if he'd even try to ask, Harry would be the type to seamlessly prevaricate, and ignore the subject all together, so he really didn't have much of a choice in the first place.

He approaches Louis, but stops, when he was about a step or two away, a deliciously rouge tint colouring his cheeks to match his equally satin apple mouth.

What was going on..exactly?

Harry chews on his lower lip, casting his eyes below Louis' line of vision, before shaking his head, and placing a foot forward, enough for his breath, his spearmint breath to hit Louis' skin, caressing his nose, his mouth.

This scene is definitely familiar, but his feet felt heavy, and leaden, like they're stuck in place.

Louis' not even sure if he can breathe at the moment, too busy trying to search over the gloss that painted Harry's eyes, and enhanced it, like the sun's beating down on a set of jade stones that's never been truly appreciated until now. Like it emits off its own light, blending in with the green of the the moss, the green of the bushes, heck, it compliments the green in the scenery--the world. And it's overwhelming, yet it's hard to look away, like there's a magnet that kept him at a steady gaze. It's too much, yet it's also a breath of fresh air, a wondrous sight to behold. It's just... It's everything.

"We live in a cynical world." He starts, his voice almost as soft as a whisper, the caress of a mother's touch. "A cynical world."

Louis--for sure--thinks he's stopped blinking all together.

A breathless sigh escape his lips, as he focuses his whole attention to Louis, like..like that was his purpose, his goal, to just stand there and exist, to orbit around Louis, as if he couldn't bare to stay away, couldn't stand to be torn from his presence.

"And we work in the business of tough competitors." His emotions then shift to a morbid, contrite nuance, his shoulders slouched, but tensed all the same.

Was he referring to his own status? His father's business? He is lost.

"Harry--"

"I love you." He breathes through his nose as he spoke, his chest rising in uneven intervals, almost trepid. "You.. complete me."

Louis hears a distinct sound of the harp (though it could be something else entirely), apart from the loud thrumming of his heart, the snapping of his veins as it's overworked.

"Ha--"

"And I just--" A giggle surpasses his lips, his hands covering his face, akin to a toddler playing hide-and-seek. "J-Just.." And there we go, he was full on laughing at Louis, removing his hands from his eyes, and clutching at his knees to support himself precariously. Any traces of countenance from earlier, replaced with pure and utter humour, elation--so close to mocking even (though he's probably not wrong on that one).

"Oh god." He gasps, in-between laughter, eyeing Louis merrily, like he's a comedian. "Apologies, sir Tomlinson." He says, chuckling in small spurts. "It's just, your face.." Which sets him off to an even bigger fit, doubling over, hugging his stomach close. "Such a delight as ever, I tell you." Which probably translates to a 'Stop looking at me like that, your expression abhors me. Yes, that one.' From what he's experienced the day before.

Louis' flushed down to the tip of his toes in embarrassment, because he's still shocked from the words, those very same words that he had thought to be a raw, genuine confession, not just some deranged act to draw him out from underneath his skin, and show the subtle signs of the very little of humanity that Louis' trying not to expose--the only good of what's left of his soul, out there onto the open public for everybody to see.

Was this just a game to him? Did he have to go through such surplus greetings every single time Louis visits? He's not even sure what the boy can gain from that, but from the looks of it, he's just feeding off of Louis' agony and vulnerabilities for his own sick, twisted amusement. He's not really sure how to react to that. Heck, he's not even sure how to feel most of the time, by the span of the bloke's ever-changing transitions.

So, in an attempt of getting away from curly haired bastard as far as possible (before he can catch sight of any shift in regards to Louis' cool demeanor), he pushes past Harry in long, hasty strides, along with his luggages in tow.

He hears the echo of footsteps behind him, but he doesn't acknowledge it.

Then his attention is brought to the movie playing in the background passes, with Tom Cruise mirroring all the same lines, all the same, motherfucking lines that escaped the bastards mouth, ending off in the same damn chronology. He distinctly begins to see red.

"Your room is just up the stairs." Harry instructs monotonously, barren like he didn't even care--wouldn't have thought to be if a Louis hadn't heard. Here we go again. "Second door to your left."

Without so much as a breath in his location, Louis sets off to said door, almost flinging his material possession towards the bedroom.

"That fucking bastard." He hisses under his breath, as he began tearing at the tape, tearing the zipper to his luggages open, then throwing himself to a Queen-sized mattress, burying his nose onto a comfy, silk pillow and drifting off.

-

What? What was going on?

Something collides with his forehead.

He blinks his haze away, only to discover Harry sitting on a wooden chair that faced towards Louis. His hair is a tornado, and his clothes are disheveled and crumpled along his body, looking to be thoroughly fucked, with purple marks on his neck. He held a set of rubber bands that flung at Louis--all spot-on--where his face was mushed onto a pillow.

Louis should feel concerned--seeing as it was part of his job--but the exhaustion having to wake up a quarter past at four o'clock in the morning to haphazardly shove his remaining clothes onto a spare rusack, and inform his landlord about a recent change in tenancy that will require for him to vacate to accommodate his work placement, had told him otherwise. The woman was livid of course, asked him why he chose to put it off the last second, and he explained that he'd been recently hired by Des Styles, and that he didn't actually have much choice in the matter (a lie, sue him--he couldn't even read what's written on fine print), to which she sighed begrudgingly (probably recognizing the name), handing him a refund for his last 15 days of lease, before he headed off from Manchester to London.

He jumps, when a particular one hits nose.

"What fuck!" He screams. "What the hell are you doing in here?"

Harry smirks, flinging his last one onto his forehead, shrugging undeterred. "Ran out of particular distractions to tend to my brittle soul."

Brittle soul?

Really?!

"You know," Louis crosses his arms. "You do talk some shit."

"I'd like to think to that it brings some sense of beauty, to the otherwise dystopian, and illiterate world we live in." And he eyes Louis, when he says the word 'illiterate', completely setting him the fuck off. Louis is anything but. "Also, as you have signed yourself up as my handler, it's only natural that you'd tend to my needs."

"As in...?" He inquires, warily having to acknowledge the contract that he had hidden away from his own view for the past few days. God, he is hoping that Harry wouldn't make him clean the toilet or something.

"As in," Harry rolls his eyes. "I am famished, and I require sustenance, Mr. Tomlinson. Chop, chop."

"But I don't know how to cook." Deadpans Louis. "Don't you have personal chefs to tend to your dietary needs?"

"My father has recommended the thought." Harry agrees lightly. "But it's far more of a hassle having to deal with one nuisance, rather than adding another."

Louis ignores the crude comment. "It hasn't even been a day."

"Indeed." The boy replies, nodding. "But since you insisted on settling with the contract and following my father's orders to accompany me--in whatever this agreement was--you've only added yet another hurdle to my path."

"Your father just wants to keep you under control, seeing as you're having difficulty _remembering_ that you're actually seen as an important public figure to the world, that liked to get his face plastered in the newspaper, pissed drunk, with thousands of middle-aged women and early pre-teens salivating at his feet." He blurts unthinkingly. A filter is what he needs.

Harry actually laughs at that, but it's empty, and his eyes are dark, which is probably not good. "A dream come true, isn't it?" He says instead, almost sounding...dejected (?) by the comment.

Well, he started it, Louis thought quickly. It was only fair.

"I'm sure you'd had plenty of practice in the department."

And he says that on his way out the door even before Louis could get another word out, leaving him confused and for some reason guilty.

Apart from the demeaning words on Harry's end, Louis had deliberately mentioned blind assumptions, and unreasonable statements on the bloke's lifestyle (some of which he's learned from TMZ and gossip tabloids in the passing), without really knowing much of the said boy's past, his history to aim at any angles.

Goddamn-shit-fuck.

He's barely even made it two days-- _two days_ \--with this job, and he's already about to get fired at the only well-paid job that he's ever possessed.

He was informed prior to the deal that Des had been reluctant to hire him. (though in hindsight, he's probably not wrong). Not having much knowledge or feedback from Louis' workplaces (seeing as he only ever worked in a pub for a couple of months, then the clinic), or his resumé, he had a very slim chance of ever getting accepted for the job, but he promises Louis that he was assured, when he mentions of Zayn's highly coveted recommendation for his service, and that he was immediately taken to Louis' work ethics (or from what Zayn's provided him) that he began preparations to meet at that same day, which only sinks Louis further down the rabbit hole.

How was he supposed to fix this?

Moreover, how does he even begin to apologize to Harry, when they can barely tolerate the other's presence? Send him flowers? Rub his feet? Massage his back? He's completely out of his fucking realm.

He thinks he just single-handedly screwed himself over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -collapses on a cushion- Don't exactly know what to think of this chapter. Sorry if it'll bore the some of you, but it's necessary, once you think about it. Trust meee!


	4. Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis' attempt in an apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I meant to post this on Harry's birthday, and just my luck I posted it on my brother's -rolls eyes- Anyways, it took a while to actually decide on what'll happen in this chapter when I consider both personalities, so thankfully, I had 8 tracks, and I got to listening, and here it is. Please enjoy!

-

Louis had not gotten a wink of sleep. His hair is mussed up, his clothes are crinkly, and rumpled, he even thinks there's a rubber band that's irreparably kissed on his cheeks from pressing on it for too long. His mouth felt gummy, his eyes felt droopy, but yet... he still couldn't get himself to settle, with the way his mind's working overtime.

Incandescent light is reflecting through his window, and the sky's an ocean blue, with hints of silver-grey clouds hovering lazily along the horizon, and the sun appeared a pale shine, but bright nonetheless.

His thoughts were wailing, screaming, howling in all directions. What do I do... What do I do... What do I _do?!_ He had absolutely no idea on how to appease Harry. Absolutely no fucking clue as to what could be going around his head (obviously, because he barely fucking knew a thing about the lad, and he just went on a massive leap, hurdling words that he never really knew the value of, slashing his knife at every foreign object he sees).

After their disagreement the night before, just bordering on morning, he couldn't get his thoughts together, and his mind drifted to something that Harry had said to him when he'd met the bloke on his official first day:

_"You're afraid that if I had died, that will be the end to your only source of income."_

And the very sentence itself left a very pungent taste in his mouth. The time that he thought Harry had died... What exactly was going through his head?

The regret of ever speaking ill of him, had he known of the lad's passing?

The ineffable spark of what could've happened?

A sense of adventure that he might've lost as a young boy, and may have glanced at with Harry?

Or perhaps he really did think of the fortune that came along with his employment, that he'd be desperate enough to keep this job if it costed him his life, that he really was that cheap whore on the street that he previously disregard to be affiliated with?

He's not entirely sure, if he was being quite honest. Harry is screwing around with his head, even without being present, almost like a ghost, or perhaps a shadow to appear in his brightest moments to darken it. To hover over it, to steal away its shine, its radiance.

 _So why do you stay?_ his subconscious quietly asks.

Why why _why?_

Because he's scared shitless.

He's scared shitless, because he's not even sure as to how he'd even begin to answer that question.

So he pushes his raging thoughts at the back of his head, just sort of pushes it on the back of his mind behind closed doors, without a lock or a key to hold it all back in its enormity.

It's a lot to think about, but he refuses to let the thoughts run rampant, and taint his other thoughts, refuses to let the big question hang over his like a guillotine that hung by a thread.

He just.. He needed this. Needed this space to just wipe his slate clean, and begin assembling his thoughts without interruption, even if it was temporary.

His stomach then begged to be filled at that same exact moment.

And fuck.

He could really use a good breakfast right now. Preferably a full english breakfast, with a side of some warm Yorkshire tea, no milk, no sugar, and Harry's forgivene--damn it.

Why is it so damn hard to stray away from these thoughts?

He flings himself towards his luggage in hopes that it will serve as a plentiful distraction for the time being, as he began to unpack his clothes.

-

It was about 10 am, that he's finally decided that he had distracted himself enough folding his own boxers, that he began to crave a meal once again.

With the hunger diluting his thoughts (not really), he seeks out his outfit of loose, maroon joggers, along with long black socks, and a comfy green Adidas sweater (that he'd gifted himself while purchasing Zayn's birthday present the month before for his 24th birthday).

He heads towards his door in light, but errant footsteps.

Was Harry going to be outside when he got down?

Will he get fired on the spot?

Or will Harry just take his things in a giant cradle with his calloused hands (because from what he'd seen, those things were fucking huge--can even carry at least 3 fun-sized watermelons if he thought about it), and roll it past Louis, as he's directed towards the exit?

Here goes nothing, he thought wistfully.

-

To his surprise (thankfully), Harry wasn't at all present when he went down the spiral stairs. He'd have concluded that Harry had left, like he had done last night, and be back in due time, but judging from the master bedroom--that took about a quarter of the entire second floor--he was inside his room, with his door closed, and a slight padding of footsteps he kept on hearing every now and then to emphasize his presence.

Which is... a relieving change in itself if he was being truthful.

So with a last glance back towards Harry's door, he heads towards the kitchen on a mission to locate a proper breakfast, to soothe the war that's been occurring in his stomach.

-

It turns out that Harry hadn't been exaggerating when he said that there was nothing to eat, because there literally was nothing to _eat_.

Sure they may have been a bottle of water, and some expired yoghurt, probably even a piece of a half-eaten sub that looked to be growing _hair_ (fucking gross) on the sides, but the boy really wasn't kidding when he asked Louis for some food, because there literally is _nothing_ in the fridge, and he's still not fed.

He weighed his options a bit. Should he buy himself breakfast? Yes. His continuously grumbling stomach is the proof of that, but then his thoughts drift back to the curly haired boy. Would he be okay by himself while Louis' gone? Or will he take that opportunity to go out, and make a fool of himself in front of the paparazzo, while Louis' out for a food hunt? Damn. It's like babysitting all-over-again, but with a 6 foot man child, instead of rowdy babies and screeching pre-teens to tend to.

Judging from the lack of sounds from upstairs, Harry's footsteps have ceased completely. Which would either mean that he'd been asleep, or something else that required little to no activity to require any sort of movement.

Hopefully it'll remain that way, till his return.

-

So about fifty-eight pounds lighter, and about three, maybe eight pounds heavier, Louis sets off for his (Harry's flat), to make himself breakfast, and probably apologize to Harry about last night, maybe beg not to be fired from his job?

He's still haven't even decided on what to say, if he was being honest.

He could say that he was sorry for a start, sorry for blowing up on him unintentionally, sorry for being a rude tenant, sorry for being a jaded, arrogant scum to ever exist in the universe. But.. what then? Where does it go from there? Harry didn't look to be the type to hold grudges, but he does appear to be the sensitive type from the way he skirted off from Louis the first chance he got, so he reckons he's got to do better than that.

Even from the first day they've met, Harry had been an enigma, a pretty flower with some unlikely thorns, who carried the plague on his heels. He could immediately envision more probing questions, inquiring him more of his goal in regards to the apology, what his motive was to acting it out, rather than just quitting, which was... still a big question to him.

He considers asking Zayn, but doubt he could get a word from the lad, knowing that he's still pretty busy with his university stuff, and guesses the same thing applied to Liam. Niall couldn't be that much of a help, without hitting too close to home, and probing Louis too much, that he'd suspect that he was hiding something from him, and will become suspicious; he doesn't need that right now, if he was being quite honest. And Stan, well, he hasn't gotten ahold of Louis in a while because of conflicting schedules--would take too long to actually explain everything till he can get to the main source of the problem, and he doesn't really have too much time for that.

So, to be precise, he couldn't rely on his friends. At all.

He was too lost in thought, that he completely disregards his empty stomach a bit, and instead, walking past his car, walking at least a block. Just walking, walking, walking, not having much thought on the actual distance he'd built himself, until he notices that he made it past Hyde park, and into an entrance to a quaint café.

Confused, he swirls a quick 360, before sighing with a swipe to his face. He had no idea that he even went this far. He still had groceries full of essentials that he thinks they'll need, and then some, held on both crooks of his elbows. His stomach has silenced a bit now, but he still felt the need to consume something (no matter how very little), so why the fuck not?

Harry wouldn't probably have wanted to see him either way. Heck, he even doubted that the bloke had notice Louis' disappearance just yet. After all, it was barely half past twelve, and he figures that the boy would order in or something if he was hungry, so Louis reckons that he'd have enough time to think by then, so he heads in without a second thought.

-

The interior inside was simple enough. There are about 5 to 8 wooden tables, all separated in measured length, each have at least 2 rustic chairs underneath them, and a laminated menu, along with some sugar packets and blueberry and raspberry jams on tiny packaging atop each table. The counter, is shaped like it would a pub, with half a rectangle's worth of bordering cherry wood, along with a small entrance to the side. There are shelves behind the counter that had some knick-knacks, along with a few delicately decorated confections, scones, puff pastries, and meringue pie with 1/8th of it missing, all placed on separately covered aluminum trays with transparent, dome-shaped lids.

He turns his head to survey more of the choices, but was met with a soft 'welcome', by a stout man by the register, with soft features, and freshly ironed ivory long-sleeves, and a bow tie. He wore a bartender's navy blue apron, along with some animated (probably a customization of sorts) designs pinned onto the apron proudly. He has a fresh full hair of dirty gold, his eyes are a mud brown colour, and his skin is a delicate cream.

Louis gives him a curt nod, heading towards the empty table in the middle, close to the register, examining the contents of the menu, after placing the bags at his feet.

"Rough morning, huh?" The lad asks, while Louis jumps at the attention, turning his head towards the source of the voice.

He hums, straying his gaze back towards the folded leather he held. "You can say that." He's not even sure if he's allowed to elaborate, wouldn't care to be if the lad was just feigning interest towards him to give off some sort of homey feel to it, so he just keeps quiet, the tidal waves of his thoughts drowned in deciding between a macaron, or a BLT for brunch.

"Difficulty with the missus, then?" The man plows again, trying to rouse Louis into a conversation. He snorts. If only.

"Not really." Louis answers back, stroking lazily at the sleek, gloss lamination of the menu. And ha! There goes another assumption regarding his love life, which is nonexistent, but who cares at all, really. "Not even close."

The boy chuckles. "Well, it was worth to try, I guess." He shrugs.

"Mhmmm." Louis agrees softly. "Guess we can't all be mind-readers, can we?"

"Probably not." He shrugs again, then perches his chin on the heel of his palm. "Penny for your thoughts?"

And that made Louis gape slightly at the bloke. "Mate, I'm still going to order, whether you make idle chatter with me or not, you know?"

The guy by the counter snorts. "I know."

"Then why're you asking.. exactly?"

"Because I'm bored, and you're the only person to speak to around this joint." He states simply, like he wouldn't care of what Louis thought of the matter.

Louis raises a curious brow. "Don't you have co-workers for that, at least?"

"Do you have black hair?"

"No."

"Then there you go."

"Don't you have better things to do?"

"Nope." Chimes the blonde. "Just trying to initiate a conversation with the only other body exhibiting this place."

"And what are you going to get out of knowing my life's story, then?"

The boy shrugs casually. "Nothing, if I'm being quite honest." He answers truthfully. "But I'll be less bored, and you'll probably lighten up your shoulders, or 'summat."

"You don't even know who I am." Louis feels a smile tug at his lips.

"So?"

Louis sighs, considering his options. He doesn't even know the extent of exposing anything about Harry, so he figures he can just prevaricate, no matter how much he wanted to spew his guts out to this stranger. "If you're that determined to know of trying to read me, then why did you get a job at this empty café, then? Being a psychiatrist not enough for you?"

"Because this place belonged to my gran, and she gave this place to me for my birthday last year, when she passed."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Why does he always say the wrong things?

Blondie shakes his head. "Don't be." Then. "It's been a while, so I'm numb up until this point."

Louis didn't know what else say, but the boy continues on.

"Plus, I've just finished college, so might as well make some income, you know?"

"But why do you stay?" The words felt like butter for some reason, but the words threaten to sink below the wood of the floor. "Why would you want stay at this place, when you've got the world ahead of you? You just said that you've recently graduated, so why couldn't you just apply for a better job?"

"I could." The bloke agrees wholeheartedly, but a bit distant. "But there's always been this sort of magic to this place, you know?" He continues. "Like, yeah, I could be making more income, but there's just something about this place that I didn't want to get rid of--something that drew me in the first time, even now."

"Could be that you have memories here?" Questions Louis.

"When I got this from Granny's will," he explains. "I've never really known about this place till it was given to me, so there's goes that idea."

Louis whistles. "So you're telling me, that there's no relevance to this place, other than being previously owned by your grandma?"

"Absolutely not. Nadda. Zilch."

"So, why?" Dictates Louis, a tiny bit frustrated. He's not even sure why he wanted to hear the answer to the onset undertone to his question.

"Mate, I'm pretty sure I answered your question already."

" _Mate_ , I'm sure all you said was that you're drawn to this place by some sort of old magic, and such."

"Not old magic. This is not Harry Potter." The lad interjects, rolling his eyes slightly, but it didn't hold annoyance of any kind, just sort of like a quirk he does. "And yeah, I--Like I said, I just can't stay away--can't get myself to even _think_ of selling this place."

"So," Louis ventures. "Your fascination to this place--this boring place--is what's making you stay?"

The boy shrugs. "Yep. Like a moth to a flame."

"That's just fucking weird, man." Louis snorts. Who even fucking does that? This lad's just strange. "I guess you're a masochist for choosing to yield to boredom, than doing better things with your life."

"Maybe." He confesses with an airy chuckle.

And silence. Well, as silent as it can be, while the lad by the counter starts rifling with a bag, stuffing a few pastries inside it, and pouring in two cups of hot chocolate into two to-go cups, along with a handler to keep it organized and upright.

"Here. That'll be 10 pounds."

"But I didn't order anythi--"

"You'd need to apologize to your friend somehow, right?" He doesn't even know the half of it, but he doesn't correct him--because he wasn't even sure what he and Harry were--shifting in his seat, to pull out a crumpled tenner from his pocket.

Louis' mouth gapes. "How did you--"

The boy shrugs, smiling as he approaches Louis with the hot chocolates, then discreetly shoving the paper bag full of pastries into one of the empty plastic bags, and sets the hot beverages on the table while nicking the bill from his fingertips, just as the bell by the door tinkles softly, indicating a new customer.

Louis shakes his head, reaching down for both bags under his table, and reaching steadily for the drinks, taking glance at the bloke who seemed to sense his gaze, blinking back at him. They exchanged departing nods, before Louis pushes the door open with his leg, heading towards the direction of his car.

Here goes nothing.

-

To his surprise, the gate remained open just as he'd left it earlier, so he discreetly floors the pedal of his car inside, shoving the gate aggressively with his fingertips through the opening in his window, a small, but questionable sense of trepidness washing over him. How had he been so careless? What if someone had entered through those gates? What if a reenactment of the same scenario Harry had done earlier, was now accomplished because of his petulant carelessness?

How could he have been so stupid?!

 _HarryHarryHarry_ his mind was pelting him over and over again.

He breathes out a sigh of relief, when he bustles over the front entrance to notice that the door is closed, but not locked. And that's at least typical for Harry to do, so he nudges the knob open, and throwing himself inside.

From where he can see, Harry's door was open, which meant that he was either still somewhere in this flat, or he was meandering about London, so he's safe, at least as far as Louis knew.

He wanders towards the kitchen, and he almost jumps out of his own skin when he sees Harry, seated at a stool by the kitchen island, looking bored out of his mind with a box of locks, and a smaller blue box full of paper clips, eyes a distant blue-green tint, lips pressed onto a thin line in concentration.

When he sees Louis, a small scowl grazes on the corners of his eyes, his lips, along with some sort of surprise, maybe a bit of warmth, or relief in there somewhere, which is... He didn't really know how to react to that.

"I see you're living the life of a profligate patron now." He states, motioning to the bags, while fiddling with the paperclip into a keyhole of a lock, and slowly, it clicks open. Did he just question Louis of his whereabouts? Probably not.

Louis finds himself chuckling, watching as Harry unlocks yet another lock, this time a bit faster.

"Wouldn't you like to know." He states cheekily, smiling, as he sets the bags down onto the dining table, and pretending to keep himself preoccupied, but inwardly shaking on his toes as he tries to locate the part of his brain that knew how to broach the subject of an apology. "But no, I haven't even gotten paid yet, so no shopping trip just yet."

Harry studies him a bit, before shrugging, and continuing to work away at yet another lock, pursing his lips as he does so.

"So where did you get the money to get those, then?" He pries further. "Planned a grand heist lately?"

And what?

Did he just...

Did Harry just refer to him as some conniving burglar?

"What?" He snorts sharply. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

Harry shrugs, indifferent. His stature is slouched, and he's yawning. "Wouldn't be gobsmacked if you did."

Louis' brow creases, crossing his arms, affronted. "You think I stole these things then?"

Harry says nothing, but he looked a bit amused by Louis' reaction.

"Oh my god." Louis tugs at his hair in frustration, narrowing his eyes at the curly haired bloke. "You _really_ think that I stole these?"

Harry huffs, shifting his crossed legs apart, and eyeing Louis shortly, before continuing with unlocking yet another lock, shrugging again.

Louis wipes at his face, scratching at the top of his head. He's getting riled up already, and he's still fucking hungry, so he ignores the quiet clicking sound in the background, and reaches for a plate on one of the cupboards. Lucky guess.

He doesn't say another word, as he heads towards the table, yanking the bag of pastries from inside one of the plastic bags, and stacking them on the plate, feeling Harry's gaze on his direction, but it was brief so he doesn't catch it when he turns around, placing the pastries in front of him on the counter, and snatching a chocolate croissant onto his awaiting palate, and taking a generous bite, with pastry flakes catching on the corners of his lips.

Harry looked a bit too distracted, as he kept his eyes only on the locks, like he's trying to avoid something, his throat bobbing frequently. And if he didn't know better, he can hear a slight growl coming from the curly haired bloke. Had he not eaten this whole time? What the fuck?

Louis plays coy for a while, snagging both steaming cups and placing one in-between his lips taking a long, warm sip, and sliding a cup close to the pile of opened locks, never once making eye contact with the jade green eyes that looked questionably to him, before pushing the cup towards Louis' direction, slightly contrite.

Louis' mouth fidgets, as he pokes the cup towards Harry again, watching as Harry furrows his brows, discreetly pushing the cup towards Louis.

"Do you mind?" He snaps, sighing exasperatedly. "This place is more of mine, than it is, yours."

Louis groans. "Just fucking take it, will you." Pushing the cup towards Harry vehemently.

Harry's brow furrow, annoyed. "And why the fuck should I?" He questions coldly. "I didn't ask for you to get me something."

"Uh, actually you did." Quips Louis. "Last night, if you were wondering."

"Well, I don't need it anymore, I'm not hungry." He huffs. Who the hell was he kidding? Both of them knew that, that was pure bull, but he looked to be proud of his actions, sticking his nose out, and jutting his chin up to prove his point. This boy.

"Excuse me? Do I hear bullshit?"

"I don't need your fucking pity."

Is that how he sees it? That Louis was pitying him? Well.

Louis rolls his eyes, and snags the cup closer to him, eyeing Harry, as he feigns an even greater deal of attention to what he was doing.

That was supposed to be his apology token for his misdemeanor for the last night. Now, how was he supposed to cue-in his apology now?

There's this silence that settle between them, where Harry continues to plow through his endless pile, taking lesser time, at every other lock, differing by a second. Damn. What exactly is this bloke trying to achieve by picking at locks?

"What do you get by unlocking those?" I'm sorry is what he wanted to say.

Harry ignores him, but there's a slight hitch to his shoulder.

He snorts. "And you say I plan heists." I'm sorry he thinks.

"'S a way to past the time." Harry replies finally in a firm rasp.

Oh fuck it.

He's doing this.

"Look," he takes a breath. "I'm sorry."

Harry's fiddling had ceased completely, and his brows are raised up to his hair line in surprise, eyes wide and searching. "You... You're apologizing." And he speaks slowly (well, slower than his usual pace of short pauses at every word), like he couldn't believe his ears.

"Yeah." He swallows, scratching at the back of his neck, avoiding the boy's gaze.

"For?"

"Last night."

"Last night?" He pushes, tilting his head to the side.

"For saying all those things."

Harry narrows his eyes in confusion. "What do you mean.. by that?"

Louis sighs. Does he need to spell it out any further?

"For saying that you liked getting pissed drunk, and whoring around. I don't know." He confesses. "I've got no right to make assumptions when I've barely even known you."

"But you probably saw those from somewhere, didn't you? 'S not exactly a shot in the dark."

"So you're saying that, that's what you do then?" He says instead. "Get laid every night, then get drunk to oblivion for a living?"

Harry says nothing at that, just stares unseeingly ahead.

"See?" He sighs, taking another sip at his warm drink. "That's what I'm saying. I know there's more to it than what the media says, which is why I'm apologizing."

"But why?" Harry half-screams. "You don't even fucking know me. We are nothing but employer and employee, so what exactly can you get out of apologizing to me?"

Louis groans. "Weren't you just fucking listening?!" You fucking nutjob. "I'm apologizing because I don't know you, and I just said things about your life without really considering your part, your story, and I had no fucking right to do that."

"You're just apologizing because you don't want to lose your job." Harry was quick to point out, putting down his supplies onto the counter top, and crossing his arms. And here we go. Just like he expected.

"I--you--" he inwardly screams. This fucking prick. Is the idea of a genuine apology that foreign to him? "For fuck's sake. I don't care much for this job, okay?" He finds that he means this.

Harry blinks at him, his face void of expression.

"Plus, it was your dad that hired me, not you." He states plainly. "So if you want to get me fired, then tell him. I'm just trying to make amends with you--another human being trying to apologize to the other--no pretenses, no motive, just an apology, okay?" Then. "If you can't accept it, then I'm fine with that. I can pack my stuff by tomorrow--no problem."

And there. He's said his piece, he's earned his pat on the back for today.

He sets off to his bedroom before Harry could get another word out, plopping down the soft cushions of his bed, plugging his iPod onto his earbuds, and drowning out the thoughts of the curly haired bloke, and how he might've reacted at the back of his mind.

He drifts about two seconds in. 

-

He wakes up early morning, finding that his throat is irritatingly drowned in nothing but the remnants of the only meal he had that day. Which mostly consisted of sugar, and nothing but sugar.

Slowly, yet sluggishly, he rubs at his eyes, as he makes his way to the kitchen, only to find only a single piece of a blueberry strudel and his cold cup of hot chocolate that remained on the counter. He looks over to the dining table to find that the plastic bags are no longer there (he wouldn't have to guess to know that they're probably either in the fridge, or inside the cupboards), but in its place is a parchment; a purple sticky note written on in fine calligraphy.

 _'Next time, buy more produce, you tit. Are you trying to get me killed? (Actually don't answer that, I already **know** )'_ And it was signed off with small scribbles of ill-drawn vegetables, and a single transparent cup, labeled _'milk'_ on the center, along with an imitation of an angry scowl emoticon.

He giggles lowly under his breath, shaking his head scoldingly, as he grabs a water bottle from the fridge, covers the lone strudel in plastic wrap and makes his way back towards his room.

And if he tucks the note inside one of his books for good measure, well, nobody has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I can get started in a few things. -maniacally laughs- Thank you so much for all the reads!


	5. Partial Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis is given some space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait. As always, any mistakes/error in grammar will be fixed soon, please enjoy!

-

The next day, Louis had no idea the how day will turn out.

He apologized to Harry.

He literally apologized to the bloke, and all he got was a piece of writing from him indicating more produce? Like, was he expecting Louis to buy more grocery for him for future reference? Or... It was just an inane reference to just consider if he did go to the supermarket the next time?

Why did this boy have to be difficult? Did he forgive him, or not?

He swipes at his face.

His eyes drift to the side of the bed to locate his phone and check over the time.

9:24 am

With a loud groan, he haphazardly hops out of bed, immediately heading over towards the bathroom. He really is so fucking tired.

-

When he heads downstairs, Harry's already awake, dressed in a soft white shirt with two birds fitted at his collar bones, a fitted... barcode pajama pants (he's honestly not sure whether to be laugh, or to be endeared), and his feet is clad in yet another pair of Chelsea boots, but this one is an ugly yellowish brown colour, perched onto one of the horizontal bars at the leg of the stool, munching on what looked to be a banana-stuffed waffle, with peanut butter. Grossed out, he's definitely grossed out. He's just glad that it wasn't the Nutella.

He doesn't acknowledge Louis, when he heads over to riffle through the fridge, locating a package of unopened powdered donuts that he remembered purchasing the other day, and stuffing two, maybe three in his mouth, then snatching a bottle of Gatorade within his line of vision, and drinking at least half its contents with one breath. He feels Harry gawk obnoxiously at the action, but what he doesn't see does not necessarily have to be there.

Without even sparing a gaze in the lad's direction, Louis clears his throat, tapping on the side of his thighs, and scratching the back of his head.

"Do you--"

"I don't need you."

Louis tries not to gasp at the situation, but he finds himself taking in a breath.

He hums.

"I mean it." Harry pulls himself up to a standing position, crossing his arms firmly, the white of his shirt hugging every crease, every contour of his arms, his tattoos clearly visible, and on full display for Louis to marvel at, instead of having to look at the annoyed scowl that Harry's sporting. Oh, is that a rose at his arm? "I've been without alcohol for nearly a month now."

Louis hums once again, bereft of words. Didn't Zayn mention of only a drug-abuse? Why was he only hearing of an alcohol addiction now?

"Are you even fucking listening?" Asks Harry, almost sounding like a growl. "My system's been clean for a while, and I haven't had a drop, nor an urge to have a drink. Which means, you really don't have much to do around here than take up space." Ouch. Why did he feel a pinch to his arm at that?

"So, what am I supposed to do for another two months?" Louis voices steadily. That's a long time doing absolutely nothing all day. "The contract entails for me to stay at least for two months, before even thinking of having to quit."

"Don't quit." Harry quickly blurts, a light tint of pink flushes at his neck and ears, he shifts from toe-to-toe unsteadily. And why? He's not even looking at Louis anymore. "My father's clearly going to hound me again about the employment procedures, and its proven to be a great difficulty having to deal with another new face."

Louis furrows his brow in confusion. "Didn't you just say that you didn't need me, or...?"

"I don't." Affirms Harry with a huff. "But having to co-operate with yet another nuisance is not exactly in my area of expertise."

Co-operate? He's joking right?

And wow. Was that... Did Harry just say that Louis is an exception to his messed up companionship needs? He's sure Harry had added the word nuisance there, but that's what he was basically saying, right? Or was he just indicating that he just didn't want to deal with any more introductions? Louis guesses it's the latter.

He inwardly sighs.

"Alright." He's probably imagining it when Harry takes a small step back, as if he didn't expect Louis to agree immediately. Taken back like the rug had been pulled from under him. "I'll probably come for my stuff whenever, so have the gates opened by then, alright mate?"

And he exits the kitchen calmly, like he's just numb to the feeling. Question was, what was he supposed to feel exactly? Exuberance? Elation? Cordial? Yes. All three would be best.

-

After he's dressed in his tightest jeans, and the bluest, fittest shirt he's ever known, that Louis finally--finally--heads down the stairs.

At first he didn't think too much about it, really, hadn't even thought--at the slightest--about whether Harry'd even be present during his departing for the afternoon, and yet there he was, dressed in an iconic blue-grey tights and a loose black--probably too loose--sweater that hangs of slightly on his shoulder. He vaguely sees a 17BLACK tattoo, wondering what that was for, but deciding against it, and brushing past the bloke, who looked to be getting ready to watch a few too many movie marathons, his python fingertips, enclosed in a variety of snacks that Louis had purchased the day before (even the fuzzy peaches he wanted to eat some time during the day--damn).

He had no idea what to say, no fucking clue as to how he'd approach a the topic of a farewell, so he doesn't, just literally glances at Harry, who was void of any emotion, still hating Louis, and he gives him a parting nod (to which he doesn't return--rude), before heading out the door in a beeline, shoving his bare feet into his Van's, grabbing his keys by the key hooks--that Harry never bothered to use--and heading out.

Louis had a second of doubt, inclining his head slightly towards the closed doors, before heading towards his car. He vaguely hears a film already playing. But what does that have to with him? Harry's probably already sizing himself up for the long months without Louis, so it really shouldn't feel like a goodbye.

The world lives on.

-

The first thing he does, is rent out a motel room that was about a few blocks from his previous residency, but believe him, it was only a mere coincidence. He didn't intend to even choose that specific location.

From what he's gathered, there's a Lefty's Convention occurring all around London (believe him, he hadn't believed it either), which meant that the majority of the hotels, and flats are inhabited by foreign 'lefters' from across the country.

Try as he might, he couldn't find much of a difference with using either the right hand, or the left, but the latter seemed to be a small percentage in comparison to the majority of right-handers, which made Louis of no exception to the list.

Anyways, his search had come into no avail when nightfall dawns along every inch of the sky, and he was literally _this_ close to wanting to sleep in his car for the night (but that would be a waste of gas to have his car on all night). Coming back to Harry's can (and will) be a scenic route to one's own demise, so he sees through with his pride, and searched all night long for a decent room, with the hopes of some much needed rest after the long day he's had.

It's only a stroke of luck that Louis was able to locate a cheap motel room, a small bachelor's pad, with a creaky mattress, and barely any leg room. The kitchen was about 1/10th of Harry's kitchen, and the bathroom to be twice that.

It turns out, that one amongst of many had decided to cancel on their reservations the last minute, which made the room all the more attainable, when Louis stumbles in with sweaty hair, throat burning from the many runs he had to do, having to catch addresses about a vacancy from both hotel receptionists and in passing, droopy-eyed, and clothes haphazardly thrown about with the bustling crowd. It's not exactly one of his life's proudest moments, but he had to get away as fast as he could--it's done.

In a hindsight, he should've just driven to Liam's or Niall's to take them up on their offer of tenancy, providing a decent amount for his rent money (though, knowing those two, he wouldn't even get a chance to offer anything at all), and awaiting for the paycheck that'll soon cash in through his bank account. But alas, he's too proud to succumb to anybody's pity. Now he sort of understands what Harry had meant before, but he's not going to say that out loud. He's not an idiot.

Hopefully, if Harry follows through to the end of careful solitary existence, (which is something his father had intended via contract), Louis' life wouldn't prove to be too much of a hassle as it had been, and he can live in equilibrium as he once had.

Initially, Louis had intended to stop by the pub and take someone home, but deriving from previous experiences relating practical planning, his plans was thwarted without a second thought, knowing he wouldn't even have anywhere to take the stranger _to_ , so priorities first, he guesses.

All he hopes for is that he can survive till the next day when and if he goes back to pick up his belongings.

-

The next morning, he wakes up abnormally light, feathery even. Which does wonders for the bags under his eyes, only appearing as a makeshift shade, just a touch darker than his normal colour, so everything's been good so far.

He immediately sets off from his motel with the mission of locating himself a decent brunch, and planned to meet up with his mate Niall (and Liam if he was going to be quite honest), and they were planning for decent things to do during the day, just so he might probably be able to distract himself in the obvious elephant in the room that continued to manage to ensnare him, even when he chooses not to.

Maybe it's because things were left unfinished that he finds himself unresolved with the whole idea of just leaving, just like Harry had requested without much reluctance, no arguments or anything. Which is quite a shift from their previous encounters, where he and Harry had not been able to see eye-to-eye, with Harry accusing Louis of absurd assumptions. Like, a heist, really? Where the hell would he get that from?

 _Because he thinks of you as nothing but a gold-digger, isn't it obvious?_ His sub-conscious taunts.

But then, word-for-word, things that Harry said somehow resurfaces on the back of his mind. And it's mind-blearingly sobering, as if he was a recovering drunkard that's living in the haze of the alcohol that taints his veins.

_"It's quite fascinating that you'd even survived this long, conversing with me."_

_"The same reason movies were created. To spice up reality, don't you agree?"_

If Harry had wanted to be rid of Louis as quick as possible, then why was it a surprise to him that he can get on with Louis? Why was it that he spoke of reality as yet another source of bland monotony? Something only to be viewed behind a thick lens, almost like watching a film of a foreign language, unheard to the ear, incomprehensible to the tongue?

He just doesn't get it.

But then there's this sense of some divine plot thickening, like there's a stir to the calm waters, a feeling that he's familiar with, and it's strange, alien even. That he just... couldn't place it.

"--and I said, I'd gladly take on Buddhism, and learn the language of the apes." Niall states idly, munching on a piece of bacon. "What say you?"

Oh. Right. He forgot about Niall.

When did he get here any way?

"What the deuce are you on about, you Irish potato?" He questions, eyeing his plate, and noticing that the majority of his chips are ransacked, and his only piece of bacon left was already shoved half-way down Niall's throat. Thankfully, his waffles remained untouched, and just as square as he had left it. He ignores the dent on the side though. "What the hell?!"

The bloke shrugs, folding his arms, and ordering himself his own portion, eye-raking the waitress subtly, before returning his gaze to Louis. Typical.

"I was so sure that you were off in lala-land or somethin'" he confesses, sheepish. "So, what are you doing by yourself, eating breakfast outside?"

Louis snorts. "'S not like I haven't had brunch outside at all."

"With a completely new look?" Niall inquires, raising a brow at his mussed up hair, and creased articles of clothing. Oh, yeah. He had been so busy thinking about his situation, that he didn't even bother to attempt to fix up anything. Fuck, he really hates Harry. "Unless you had an early mornin--mphhh."

Louis' face flushes, as he digs his palms onto Niall's mouth.

"No, I did _not_ fuck anybody." He huffs.

"Or you could've been fucked?" Quips Niall, in a between the gaps between his fingers that he couldn't quite cover in time. "Could've worked both ways."

"Niall!" He shrieks, aghast at his friend's unnerving bluntness. There were leers, and inquisitive glances thrown their way, but Niall's known for making negligent jokes from time to time, and it never fails to test his short fuse.

 _"Who could ever expect such spitfire from such a petite frame?"_ Short, no. But he wasn't exactly wrong about the spitfire part.

"Sorry, sorry." Niall murmurs, slightly contrite, his gaze poking at the stack of freshly cooked pancakes that the waitress had just set up in front of him, with a flirtatious flutter of her lashes at him. He ignores it for once--thank god. "It just comes out sometimes. 'M sorry, mate."

Louis sighs, rubbing a frustrated hand to his face. "I know."

"So, how's the new flat? You doing okay?" Niall asks after a moment. "What's his name...Harry? Harry's not giving you a hard time, is he?" He's surprised that the bloke even remembers the name, which proves that Niall _had_ been listening to him back then. Good. He's well versed in all his Louis-lingo.

He swallows, shrugging, and flicking at his hair. "It's why I'm out, actually."

"Why? What happened?"

"He and I had a... disagreement." Well a bit more than that, but it's close enough to the truth that Niall didn't suspect a thing.

"No," Niall gasps, but he settles into his seat, slicing onto his pancake. He's about done with his meal already, but Louis' barely touched his. "Do you...erm want to talk about it?" And he sounded unsure, almost trepid to ask. Louis can't blame him to be honest. He's never really been one to disclose much about anything. All they catch onto are ones that Louis' comfortable in speaking about. "I mean, if it's that bad that you had to be outside and such.."

Louis scans Niall's face, but all he could see was pure concern for his well-being, so he smiles. Even after 4 years, Niall always knew not to poke too much, to ask too much. He's very grateful.

"Yeah, no, it wasn't bad. He just..needed space? And it was suffocating a bit, so I left instead." Again, he can only go for partial truth. Which is close enough?

Niall nods, chuckling slightly (even though he sounded a bit reluctant with the answer). The air felt lighter, more liberated--something that he's not sure is befitting his deceiving nature, but he'll settle for that, rather than having Niall suspect him any day.

"So anyways, are you still up for partying?" Niall asks. "Liam's been a total Debby Downer ever since Zayn's departing, and it's getting on my vibes, man."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"He says that if someone will be there other than me that will act responsibly, then I'm in for the clear to let him tag along--unwillingly, but come nonetheless." He adds.

Louis rolls his eyes, cooing. "Awww, you're actually indicating that I'd just follow through your little plan, that's cute, Niall."

Niall looked at him impassively, before sniffing slightly.

Oh god.

He couldn't possibly be doing _that_ , would he?

"It's okay, Lou." He whimpers quietly, blinking rapidly, eyes wide and huge, like to very large pools of water that will pull you in if you let it. He can do this. He's got the will of Zeus, he can do this. "'S not like my social life would be over when I don't attend this party."

"Niall, don't fucking do this, please!"

"No, no." Niall shakes his head petulantly, crossing his arms with a loud humph, that stupidly adorable pout still marred deeply on his countenance. "I'm not trying to do anything, Lou." The fucking liar. Both of them knew that it's definite bullshit at its finest. "I'm just trying to voice out to the heavens as to why one of my best mate hates me."

"Niall."

"No, no." He whines obnoxiously. "I'm just wondering, you know? What I did to you to deserve this type of treatment, when I've been nothing but godsend to you."

" _God_ send?! What are you--"

"Come on, Lou! We miss you!"

"We've seen each other, like two days ago." Voices Louis.

"That's still too long."

"Niall."

"Please?"

Louis groans. To go or not to go.

On a logical side Louis should've expected pick his stuff up, off of Harry's flat by now, but Louis had never really set up a specific due date to which he arrives, which meant that he could basically come at any time during the day.

"When is it?"

"Around 5, till dawn." Niall says. "But if you need to leave early, then you can stay around two, maybe three hours?"

Louis stares at the ceiling. And alas, the words slips out of his lips before he can even think about it. Damn it.

"Sure, why not."

"Excellent."

What was he to waste? 'S not like Harry'd even be aware that he hasn't gotten any of his stuff yet, right? Like, he did say that Louis' just a waste of space, right? So what's another couple of hours...right?

-

Louis arrives at the allocated dance club, just a few blocks that's north of where his motel room was. It's supposedly a high-end type of entertainment, with a short guest list, only attended by the most privileged, and his friend had somehow gotten him in the list at the last minute.

He somehow manages to tame his hair to a normal fringe, and he's close to a modest chic, with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and the buttons to be buttoned up to the collar. He's also managed to tone down his morning scruff from a cheap razor that he'd bought from the pound store, and also a couple of packages of mint gum to tone down the taste of syrup that managed stick to his larynx all morning.

"I have a mate from back in Ireland that goes to this place often."

"And I pray you, Niall, what does that have to do with being able to attend. We're not exactly dressed in the finest materials, and drink champagne at every occasion we get."

To which Niall shrugs, ignoring his comment, and answering the one that he was expecting to hear. "He owns his own company."

"Let me guess, it's got something to do with food." He shifts a little closer, judging every corner of Niall's face, like he's looking at a pulsing blemish at the tip of his nose. He doesn't (obviously), curse his Irish, flawless-faced heritage (he's seen a few of the lad's family tree, and Louis couldn't even stand to be in the same room as him for the rest of the day).

"What ever gave you that idea, mate?" Niall speaks, shoveling a spoonful of mash onto his mouth. Is this bloke even fucking serious right now? "He's actually a world-acknowledged masseuse. Ever heard of the company Jazz Hands?"

Louis rolls his eyes. "Of course." No, he didn't actually, which is why he searches it up the moment he's gained access to the motel's crappy wifi (and probably check up on anything relating Harry--which is surprisingly on a plateaux in comparison to prior their arrangement, but he's got his phone in its PRIVATE settings, so it's not even listed in his browsing history, so there).

And instead of having to wait in the long line of a glitter-minefield of desperate low-listers, Louis is lead by Niall towards the start of the line, where the bouncer was ticking off names with a clipboard.

"Niall Horan." His friend rasps, smiling brightly towards the burly men.

The two bouncers each checked their lists, before nodding, and granting them access through the gate.

He wanted fun, he's got it.

-

He feels the heat already radiate behind closed doors, but he's not at all intimidated. He needed a little bit some breathing space after these past few days. What's another drink?

There's also a distant sound of the bass that mingled the air, but he ignores it.

Niall began to run towards the entry, but Louis had him by the arm in a flash.

"You know, I never believed that Liam bullshit, right?"

The bloke smirked instantly. "Never thought you did." Then. "Doesn't change your decision, does it?"

"Nope." He assents, his shirt already beginning to dampen. "Probably not."

"Aces."

"Do I still have to act responsibly?"

"You're older than me." True, but he doesn't even what to bring about the actual word for the situation. At least not yet.

"Hasn't stopped you before." Louis replies.

"Fine." He sighs. "Do what you want."

-

Disregarding his obvious aim to lose himself through the alcohol, or the throng of sweating bodies, and the occasional courter, Louis has been anything but inebriated.

Try as he might, he simply couldn't will away his thoughts from drifting back to Harry.

No matter how very little time he's known the lad, and the inconsistency of his myriad of emotions, his pig-headedness, and his ego-centric attitude, Louis has yet to will away the wave of thoughts relating to Harry, his inhibitions, and enigmatic background.

Sure he only known around 3 percent of his life from the paparazzi, and gossip tabloids, and probably the non-disclosed information that Harry'd been an addict on not only drugs, but alcohol, he didn't really know too much. And what he was seeing was only an edited image behind bolded _and_ underlined headlines.

He knew that the lad's age, where he came from, who his present mother was at the moment, and along that are a few pictures of women he's speculated to be seeing, an affair, or even a marriage proposal with a nonexistent blonde or brunette that's coincidentally an up-and-coming Victoria's Secret model. Coincidentally.

He doesn't get what they can scrape from that.

It's obviously not true, and they just do that out of spite, to get the hard-earned pay they ask for, the exclusive lies to blur out the obvious truth, which is sickening in so many levels.

He blinks out of his stupor, with his chilled beer dampening his fingertips. The frost has already melted away, and all that's left is just shitty, lukewarm beer, no glossy design, no expensive brand to back it up, no bird hanging off on his arm like some commercials. It's not even worth drinking anymore.

He thinks he sees Niall along the heart of the orgy of grinding bodies, even thinks he's not too plastered to notice Louis' need to get some fresh air. He's hoping that the lad will understand. But then again, he can be high off his tits to even notice a single viable thing, and that's okay too.

So he heads off.

-

It's strange.

Meeting Harry has been strange.

Louis' never really one for ever taking long walks for contemplating his own decisions. Which he can admit, scares him in some sense, he can't get himself to keep thinking, thinking, thinking, because the longer he does, the longer his mind will continue to cling onto the idea, the longer he has to try to make sense of the world, and the longer it all sticks, the more his senses will be involved. He doesn't want that, not really. He didn't want exposure, he never wanted vulnerability, and Harry's piercing through his walls, denting onto his ivory fortress of blissful ignorance, and allowing the phantoms of the past allude his present.

To define is to limit.

He tugs a frustrated hand through his hair.

And... He's at it again. He didn't want this, never wanted something more than any kind of duty to fulfill. Not _this_. Never this.

God, what has he gotten himself into?!

"It'd be very much appreciated if you gentlemen would disappear."

His awareness expands further from his own bubble, recognizing the voice.

There were murmurs, yes, but it came out in irate grunts, and corpus delicti.

"You think you're so smart, huh?" One hisses.

"I reckon he even went to posh schooling." Another points out.

Harry chuckles heartily, mockingly. "Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught."

All three burly men looked confused at the comment, but that didn't exactly do anything but catalyze their anger into smoldering flames, their hands clenched, and veins visibly pulsing from their necks.

"Did he insult us?"

"I think he insulted us."

"He did." Red hair barks, cracking his knuckles. Shit.

And they were already approaching closer and closer, and Louis' heart is hammering on his ribcage, threatening to break away and have a mind of its own.

Before he can Harry could say another word, one of them got him by the collar of his pitch black pea coat with golden buttons that glinted white under the moonlit sky, and the other getting ready to restrain his hands.

But Louis was faster. It felt like he wasn't even living the moment, just watching himself as would a spectator to a wrestling match, as he lunges right towards the group.

Of course, they moved away, noticing his vigorous sprint, which is why they immediately leapt away a few meters, with questioning glances.

Harry though, looked indifferent, but there's something on the corner of his eyes, something that looked to be slight relief, which is....surprising...

"Who the fuck are you?" Squinty-eyed bronco questions.

"Yeah, you here to rescue 'yer boyfriend?" Dragon tattoos quips.

And Louis scoffs at that.

"What the fuck are you all, on about?" He indignantly snarls. "This bloke is not even boyfriend material, so why's everybody saying that?"

"Then why 're you here? Are you also looking for a good pummeling?" Red-head sneers.

Then Louis laughs. "Are you fucking kidding me?" He questions. "I'd like to beat him up myself."

The three looked skeptically at him, not making a move.

"This bloke's been getting on 'me nerves ever since day one, and you question why I want to beat him up?" Louis shakes his head, smirking, still avoiding Harry's gaze. It threatens to sear skin. "I think he needs a good beating, don't you, boys?"

Nobody says a word, still narrowing their eyes at Louis questioningly.

"Any of you have a cigarette, maybe? And a lighter?" He adds, adrenaline possessing his body in a sort of haze that all he could think about is _getting the fuck away_ , and pulling Harry along with him. He can pull this off, he just knows it. He just hopes they'd follow through as he had expected.

Harry looked perplexed for a second, meeting eyes with Louis, and giving a brief nod in understanding. Thank all that is holy that he at least _gets_ it.

All three of them assent, looking down to pat at their trousers, but Louis already had Harry by the wrist, and running with all his might, avoiding all the beckons of the men behind them.

He ignores the way Harry looked to be willingly oblige to wherever he was heading towards, and just thinks about the options he could go to.

"Get back here!"

"Fuck!"

"Oi!"

They arrive in front of his motel in ragged breaths, and sweaty everything: His forehead, his armpits, heck, even on that bit above his lips, below his nose, his arm sagging loosely in exhaustion at his side. Yep, he really should've joined Liam in his fitness conquest if he knew he had to deal with this kind of situations in every day life. He feels like a heroin for a cliché graphic novel. Now all he needed was a bright hairstyle to complete the transformation.

The receptionist informs him that it's either he pays for another night, or he could depart by morning.

Louis was about to voice out his answer, but Harry seemed to be on top of his game, and successfully refusing, that Louis'd already found another place.

They walked briskly towards the back exit, before they were exposed once again to the blistering cold, with Harry to lead the both of them towards Louis' car.

"What the fuck are you on about, Styles?" He inquires icily. "I haven't even found a place to live, and you tell them otherwise? What the fuck?!"

Harry remained impassive though, shrugging stiffly. "I'm not one to make inane fibs, Mr. Tomlinson."

"And what are you, then? Because I still can't tell." Where the heck is this leading to, anyway?

"Easy, I'm the reason as to why you are called for a job in the first place." At least he's not wrong in that part.

"Then why are you here?" Louis snaps. "I'm just doing what you told me to."

"There's a change of plans." Is all Harry says, hopping onto the passenger seat, after breaking into it with another one of his paperclip. "Don't you know how to follow procedures, sir?"

"Then why wasn't I notified of this?" Louis raises a brow. "I'm sure I would've gotten some sort of text regarding the actions I have to take." He should know, he's got his phone safely tucked inside his pockets.

Harry crosses his arms, huffing slightly, as he stares out the window, expression bleak, and unreadable. He says nothing.

"Harry."

He inwardly lashes at the boy, opening his door towards the driver seat, but keeping his car keys dangling on his fingertips.

"We're not going anywhere, till you tell me why."

Harry just blinks, and remains silent.

So he resigns (a first), shaking his head.

At least he can finally get started on that packing soon enough.

-

They arrive at the flat within 10 minutes, and Louis immediately leaps for his bedroom, already thinking of ways to cram his otherwise neatly folded clothes without making too much of a mess.

He wasn't even aware of Harry trailing in after him, till they bump onto one another on their way to their own bedrooms. Harry heads right, while Louis goes left.

He was just about to reach for his door knob, but Harry's soft spoken words seemed to shatter through the rigid silence.

"You were... astute earlier." He breathes, as if he's literally exerting his effort to force out words. "It's.." He swallows thickly. "Not all displeasing."

And he was already inside his room with the doors locked.

What.

The.

Bloody.

Fuck?!

Did he just.. Did Harry just praise him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh! I don't know Louis, did he just compliment you? Who knows? ;)


	6. Awakened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis begins to see Harry, and he's not sure how to feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had this whole dedication to updating this during Valentine's Day, because romance, you know? But seeing as it's already stating it's publication date to the 15th (when clearly it's like 11:26 pm in here), I have no other choice but to go by it. Hopefully you guys enjoy this chapter, and I apologize for the long wait.
> 
> P.S. Some vague triggers of drug-use should be noted.

-

He blinks blearily, feeling something smacking towards his cheeks. Everything remained unfocused for a while, till he blinks the haze away.

And something cushiony, and round hits his temples.

He turns his face towards the door from where he fell asleep on the wooden chair by his bed, a slight crick to his neck to get him to groan irritatedly.

Is that Harry holding a nerf gun?

Louis gets his answer, when Harry shoots another one of his ammo towards his chest area, smirking satisfactorily at his work, eyes twinkling with mirth.

Is he fucking messing around?

Right now?

Out of the long night they've had, he's choosing to act like everything's normal? Well, good for him (sarcasm, of course), but today's honestly one of those days where his annoyance is fueled quite easily, which meant that he's _this_ close to blowing up.

He doesn't say a single word, as he immediately heads towards his half-packed luggage, and feeling a surge of relief when Harry had stopped with all his morning shenanigans, and staying by the threshold, with that stupid play gun tucked beneath his arm.

"To what do I owe the pleasure to be blessed with an itinerary, Mr. Tomlinson." He murmurs, raising an inquisitive brow, almost curious (but then again, he could just be hallucinating that part). But he takes Louis' lack of response to rephrase himself. "I have not been provided with a new schedule, so pardon my lack of knowledge in the matter."

He snaps his neck towards the bloke's direction. Was he just asking where Louis was going? Is he fucking stupid, or something?

"If you're wondering where I'm going, I'm heading towards another place to stay, like you had asked. I'm just packing my stuff."

"And if your drunk-addled cortex had been able to recall, there had been a change of plans, so you need not to follow through my previous request."

He visibly snorts.

Really? A request? Can people even request others to leave? And to mix that in with Harry, it's more of a demand rather than a request.

"Well, I have to hear that part from your father, won't I?" He smirks victoriously. "Seeing as I'm not supposed to willingly follow orders from you."

"As a matter-of-fact, sir, my father can make the decisions when it comes to my public image, but all else doesn't." He states, authoritative, smiling smugly at Louis' wide saucers for eyes. "And had you not already follow through to my orders in the first place, sir? So why is that you thirst for conflict?"

Louis swallows thickly. That is true, the part with his departure was all Harry. Fuck. Why did he choose to speak to him again?

It's barely even morning, and he can already feel a migraine to settle in his temple as if a humming bird is perched at each ear, and Louis' the unwilling tree.

But that mean that was he welcoming Louis' disobedience then? He's not even sure anymore. There's no certainty when it came to the lad.

"But why did you want me to stay?" He blurts instead. Really, why would he? Louis is literally confused.

"Had you not been listening to a--"

"I get that there's been a change in 'the plan' and all that, but what do you get out of this? I thought that you didn't need me." I thought you hate me.

Harry's eyes drift to his, then to his own boots. His voice sounded strained. "I have provided you with what you needed to hear, haven't I?"

"What?" Louis snaps. "That I'm astute? How the hell is that a viable enough for me to disregard your crude comments yesterday? I'm not exactly a dog who's feeding off of praises."

"And?" Asks Harry. He appeared livid now. "Was it not true? Have I been mistaken? Misinformed? You and I are not anything but business colleagues, not acquaintances. There's not a line to the contract that it is an obligation for me to treat you justly as if we we're in some badly written fiction. This is reality, Mr. Tomlinson, you are nothing to me and I you, we are simply bound by contract that is arranged by my father, and nothing else. Fucking wake up and smell the fresh air, Alice, this is not Wonderland."

He was speechless by then, because it was true. They literally are nothing to each other, and clearly, Louis should've received a memo. He wasn't supposed to act all buddy-buddy with Harry, as if he was some long-lost-mate that Zayn had been to the bloke. They haven't met by coincidence, they met through a string of contacts, and even then, their presence in the other's life was arranged. Simple as that. Fuck. He felt like an idiot.

"I'm sorry." He whispers, drifting his attention to the empty crevices of his room. "I--I, um.. There's no excuse to acting inadequately, Har--Mr. Styles. Please forgive me." He wasn't even looking up anymore, his gaze can only go far up to the lad's knees. His breathing seemed to have decreased, and his heart doing the complete opposite by hammering vigorously, threatening to breakaway from his ribcage.

He can feel Harry's movements stutter for a second, before he sends a final nod towards his general direction, before turning around, only to halt a step, his shoulders stiffening, and his back to Louis. "I'd recommend a decent attire for the evening, sir, as we have a wine tasting to attend to." And he was out the door.

Louis was still processing his own self-reflection to acknowledge Harry's parting words before he was alone again, his door ajar, and his brain in shambles as would a tidal wave to hit shore.

And did he just mention a wine testing?

Did he need to dress formal?

Or casual?

But then, wasn't it Harry that was trying to recover from his substance abuse?

Apparently so.

But he didn't have time to think too much on the idea, as he pushes the rest of his wary thoughts at the back of his head, and sets of towards his luggage, lips pursed to surpress his urge to scream on the top of his lungs in frustration.

Six months will probably just past by, and this whole contract will be over and done with. Yes. 6 more months. This is the extent of what he can hope for. At least for now.

-

He concludes his outfit about half-an-hour in, settling for a fitted velvet, ebony blazer he had worn for a mate's wedding, along with the a faded blue short-sleeve button up that he fancied from Stan's wardrobe in his last visit, and might've snatched when he was packing up. It's a little loose on him, but he didn't have too much of choice.

Now that he mentioned it, how long had it been since he went shopping, instead of nicking clothes from his mates without their full consent? He honestly hadn't intended to borrow anything permanently from his mates, but they didn't seem too bothered when they caught sight of the familiar material, informing casually to Louis to return them if, or when he can. Which is mighty generous if he might ask. The best mates he could ever ask for, really.

He was half-expecting Harry to knock at his door again, but he figured that it wouldn't really do the boy much rather than wasted effort. But nevertheless, he takes his merry time.

-

When he got down the first floor, he finds Harry by an innumerable amount of magazines, dressed in a pink flamingo shirt, black jeans, and his hair tied up on a neat bun (which by the way should not suit the him so well as it did). Furrowing his brows, he sets his trek over to the curly haired bastard in snail steps, perusing over every changes present after he'd have left 2 nights before.

There's a bunch of empty mugs that's all stacked into a neat one foot pyramid. Paraphernalia is scattered about, where Harry sat, and loose pages of different articles that varied from historical to recreational, and horoscope (and that's only from ones he can see) were torn from their pages, laying wilted into a haphazard pile by the coffee table.

He turns his head, and finds that there's about a week's worth of food to be exquisitely wrapped, all cooled to perfection, sitting on the kitchen island, ready for access.

The television set are still where they should be, playing two different movies at once, one sound battling the other, and the DVD stack that he remembers from the first day, to all be opened from their respective cases, either missing a disk (that's probably lost in the center pile, along with some candy wrappers) or just thrown about carelessly on the carpet. Or both.

The idea seemed daunting, even sets off a few lightbulbs in his head, each neuron short-circuiting. Because a person who had about a little more than twenty-four hours shouldn't be able to accomplish this much--a week, maybe, but from what he can surmise so far, Harry hadn't slept at all, or he invited people over (which shouldn't come at all as a surprise as much as it did, seeing as he had the freedom to do so, it was his flat after all), and the boy is at the center of it all, while Louis assesses the aftermath.

"So when did the tornado hit?" Louis coughs. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Like hell Harry'd even go along with the joke. He wrings his fingers together nervously.

Harry briefly widens his eyes, before blinking at a particular page.

"Apparently in Sheffield, maybe."

Louis was unable to hide his snort. Harry looked to him, raising a brow, urging him to speak.

"I don't suppose you'd provide this one with a punch line, eh, Mr. Tomlinson?"

Louis gapes at him.

"Please tell me that you're yanking on my leg, or I swear..."

Harry's eyelash flutter slightly, but he remains quiet.

"Oh my god! You're not kidding!!!" Louis exasperates, praying to the gods to give him strength. "You really don't get it, do you?"

Oh shit. Wrong move.

"Deriving from your slight hysteria, I've deduced that you'd incorporated humor at some point in the conversation, and it'd be very much appreciated if you'd shed some light, in my otherwise blank slate, yeah?" Harry states, miffed. " _Please_." he adds, stretching the word. He was slightly endeared by the lad, and his inability to catch on jokes, that he almost missed the exaggerated pleasantry.

Louis immediately wills away the rush of wanting to explain his joke word-for-word, and instead shake his head all too quickly. He was being lead on, and he's sure as hell that he'll never make that mistake again.

"It's nothing." He murmurs, shaking his head. So far so good. "Just... Nice, um, magazine collection?"

Harry furrows his brow slightly. He looked confused, shifting from each foot. "I.. suppose?"

Louis chews on his lower lip, pretending to scan at a particular page that caught his eye.

**_HARRY STYLES AND LEGGY BRUNETTE SET OFF TO--_ **

And the article was immediately snatched away from his view.

"Hey, I was reading tha--"

His eye drift to Harry's but the lad wasn't even looking at him anymore, wasn't even in the vicinity. All Louis saw was a distant sound of clacking boots, followed by a loud bang from the door.

-

When Louis catches up with him, Harry was by Louis' car, igniting the magazine in hot flames until the parchment melts onto itself, and disintegrating to burnt shreds of paper and landing on the cement floor.

Louis fumbles on his steps when Harry huffs distastefully at the bloody thing, stomping at the last of its remnants, before turning towards the car, reaching into his pockets.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Gasps Louis, running over beside the lad to key the door for entry. "Let me open it properly, okay?" No need to keep on breaking into my car, he wanted to add in.

Harry huffs, staring into the distance, his arms crossed tightly onto his chest. He doesn't breathe another word, but he does inch away from Louis enough to give him space to open up his car, either that, or he just doesn't want to come into contact with him.

"Get in your highness." He laughs a little, noticing that the curly haired boy didn't seem to acknowledge the opened door, and heading over to the driver's side.

Harry reluctantly buckles in, in time for Louis to key his car into ignition, and exit the premises without a hassle. For now, at least.

-

"The address." Louis inquires, tapping slightly at the steering wheel, as they are parked up front of a fast food drive-in, moaning about a breakfast that he never got, so he ordered himself an arbitrary few, along with a large cup of Yorkshire, no milk, no sugar; just the way he liked it. He got Harry the same.

"Har--Mr. Styles, the addre--"

"If you'd simply like to yank on my chains, please do so in an orderly manner." Harry murmurs, drinking from his own cup, his eyes scanning pedestrians as he took interval sips, never once losing focus.

Louis narrows his eyes suspiciously. "What? For asking for the address of the wine tasting?"

"No," Harry snorts, clipped. "Mr. Styles is but my father's title. Having bear semblance to both his generic features, and sharing his surname is horrific as is." It felt like he wanted to speak more of the subject, but refused, with the way he looked to grow more distant, more distracted, angling himself just a pinch towards the window to get a better view.

Louis chews on his lower lip, astoundingly self-contained with all the questions that triggered in his head.

"So in short, you just want to be called by your first name then?" He questions for clarification, albeit tediously.

Harry never once made eye-contact with him, but he guesses that, that small shrug is his affirmation.

"Then why don't you call me by my first name, then?" He risks, flicking his hair slightly, his fingers were smoothing down the material of his jeans with his sweaty palms. "Like, you call me Mr. Tomlinson, or sir, but never my name, why?"

Harry's shoulder tenses, but says nothing, brandishing a pair of headphones atop his head.

Louis mentally scolds himself for even attempting. Of course the bloke's not going to answer. Who was he even kidding?

But he needed the address, so no matter what (or whom he might want to murder), he'd always finds himself having to converse with Harry, no matter the circumstance--the complete inevitability of the rate of chances is absolutely mind-boggling.

He reaches for the lads shoulder in attempt to get his attention, but was met with a hard jerk towards the window. He kept a giggle in, having to watch Harry huff mutely at him, while rubbing at a sore spot on his arm that came into contact with the glass. It was apparent that he had been too aware of the interaction, and jerked away desultory.

Then why had he resulted to putting headphones on, when he wasn't even going to make use of it?

"Don't touch me." He hisses, crossing his arms.

Louis rolls his eyes (he's getting a tad bit annoyed with how childish Harry's being), trying _not_ to huff, or stomp his foot on a pedal or something, although he does raise both his hands yieldingly. He plays proudly at nonchalance, but he couldn't really say if he had it in himself to not wince at the power of Harry's tone (only because they're at a small expanse of his car).

"Alright Christian Grey," he mentally pats himself on the back for using such a constructive comeback (because usually, he'd have one of his mates high-five him, but unfortunately, he only had this bloke, so he'd have to make do with the contempt scowl he'd been receiving), not that he'd read it a few times, in the dark, behind some shady bookstore that nobody visits. Definitely not. "I was just asking for the address that I asked for in the first place, so if you please--" he mentions vaguely towards the GPS that Niall had gifted him for Christmas two years ago. "--go on and type it in." So that we could get this over as soon as possible, remains unsaid.

Harry huffs, but does as he's told, muttering on about Louis being a useless help, and that he's definitely _not_ a sadist, before his eyes drift towards the outside once more.

Louis responds with an impatient tap towards the handle of the steering wheel, _clearly_ ignoring the curly-haired boy's petulant rambles, and heading over to where the GPS had told him to go.

-

They arrive about half an hour late (thank you London traffic) towards a large house that's about 2 floors (at the most, or from what's visibly seen). There's a set of ivory rooftops above a delicate attic, and there's a moss infestation strewn about 80% of the whole boarding house, along with perfectly trimmed hedges that's frames the entrance. There are about a dozen cars, and or limousines that littered the parking lot, and Louis had to settle for the center, without putting too much of a fuss.

He goes out and stretches his fingertips, while Harry follows suit, cracking his neck, his hips, and his knee caps (the lad's sure got some creaky joints), before trailing Louis at the entrance, and turning his head on the general area where he stood, not once making eye contact.

"Prior our entry, to what do I refer to you as?" He asks, pausing by a particular flower, and brushing it softly, almost appraisingly, again, avoiding any form of contact with Louis, which is rude mind you, but he guesses it's for the best, at least for now. "A server companion? A low-class escort? A personal chauffeur?"

Louis had to grit his teeth at the second option, before releasing a breath, reminding himself of the protocol. "You could refer to me as anything you feel comfortable with." Unfortunately. "Just so long as it wouldn't rouse any suspicion from the opposing party, regarding the agreement."

Harry doesn't respond though, he just merely raps his knuckles on the door, only to have a beautiful couple with blonde hair, and blue eyes answer the door. The man wore a tacky teal polo shirt, and white knee-length shorts, while the woman was clad in an obnoxiously pink, puffy dress, and tallest pair of matching (equally as expensive) stilettos. Their features are questioningly symmetrical (most likely from the works of a sumptuous osteoplasty), which adds to the annoyance that Louis inhabits for the opulent, and the privileged.

To his surprise, Harry looked to be uncharacteristically animated, greeting the couple with delight. The fucker.

"Carla and Jim!" Gasps Harry, pecking at Carla's cheeks, and capturing Jim's hand to a firm shake. "How have you been?"

Said Carla and Jim replies in elegantly pretentious noises that to the untrained ear one would expect them to speak about business, and the next money-raking scheme, but in reality, they were just speaking about missed loved ones, and that Harry must positively attend the next gala. So basically, the most anticlimactic amongst many.

He blanked out through the whole thing, nodding when he needs to, gasping when cued in, it wasn't hard to feign undivided attention, especially when he's expected to deal with a couple that's as loquacious and as vain as these two.

Though the situation didn't seem appear to pose a single threat with Harry either; extravagant, nodding a great amount here and there, echoing a comment with an aghast tone, the boy's roots are starting to show with being able to handle inane pleasantries, which makes him question as to why Harry'd act cold, and reticent towards him the whole time that he'd known the lad.

He almost misses the lady's eyes momentarily dilate when he she sets her sights on him.

"Oh bugger! Harry, you haven't introduced us to your exquisite guest."

Harry blinks blankly at him with a bored expression (he'd imagined that Harry had already forgotten of his presence by then), before beaming at Carla, and stretching his lithe arms towards Louis and leading (pushing if he was being quite honest) him by the small of his back. He literally wasn't given time to glare with all the attention that Carla's paying a great deal to, by immediately smacking a puckered Hot Lips candy kiss onto his cheek.

He curtly wipes at it with his sleeve, and the mark barely shows (or at least as much as he'd hoped to have removed it), smiling politely at the lady. Only heaven knows if she's the vengeful type.

"This is Mr. Tomlinson," Harry speaks monotonously, sounding like he's reading out from a crappy script. "He's new, he's my personal valet."

Personal valet? He inwardly shrugs, 'least it's not the escort one, or else that'd result to him to crafting homemade voodoo dolls.

"Nice to meet you, miss...?"

Carla's eyes literally brightens by the comment, undeterred by the 'personal valet' part, which _should_ be a bit off-putting, but maybe he's just bunching these wealthy beings into one big stereotype.

"Miss Carter, Carla Carter." She annunciates (even her name sounded like a million bucks), holding her palm face down, and holding it up close to his face, and jutting her chin almost proudly at an angle. Reluctantly, he obliged, pecking her on a pert knuckle, but from peripherals, he already sees Harry enter inside, alongside Jim. Louis' is envisioning stabbing Harry with a paperclip to the eye.

Without much to say, he smiles politely, murmuring his coy pleasantries (not really), then excusing himself inside (before she could speak another word out--he's doing himself a favour), to go find the curly haired bloke.

-

When Louis enters, he honestly had open expectations. He had zero experiences with even _being_ in a wine tasting, let alone being stuck in a room full of socialites that had big heads, and Barbie and Ken doll outfits, so it's safe to say that he wasn't expecting _too_ much.

But then he somehow manages to keep his mouth from hitting the floor, from what was set in front of him.

The house is particularly larger than what he had initially envisioned (it shouldn't be much of a surprise at all, really) to what a boarding house should be. From what he's able to point out, there are a lot of chairs (more so than what a regular gathering is supposed to have--lazy and obnoxious, duly noted): from stools by the collection of wine, by the trophies and knick knacks, to the soft cushions for the chaise lounge to his far left. There's an unhealthy amount of floral arrangements scattered about the room, all bright, and overly ostentatious, and expensive. To his right, he sees guests dropping by a granite table with a female clad in a purple dress and fake pearls to hang around her neck, to give her either a purse, or a furry garment, which could probably mean that she's in-charge of commandeering the wardrobe for all the guests.

And amongst it all, are a ridiculous amount of guests that littered just about every corner. Did he mention that the majority of them there, are females? From blondes, to brunettes, to just something unusual, like purple tip dyes, there are are a variety of them. Of course there are males as well, but that fact made it all the more difficult to locate Harry. Great. Now how was he supposed to keep an eye on him?

Well, he guesses that he'll find the bloke soon enough.

-

Amidst shared bottles and glasses of Merlot, to Chardonnay, and long strings of smoke addled socialites, Louis' surprised than even he manages to have some fun, even if it's spoken through native tongue, or drunken slurs--close enough he guesses.

Pushing behind some conversations about new mansions, and vintage Cadillacs, Louis was at least able to tolerate them at a distance. For a while.

But then now, he's stuck between a rock and a hard place, a sheen of sweat lightly beading his forehead, and he still wasn't able to locate Harry, and it's already been 3 hours. _Three_.

He tried getting a hold of him all afternoon, and then he remembers that the two are yet to exchange numbers when he was pocketing his phone, which made his job more of a difficulty.

He's been asking anybody who's anybody about the bloke's whereabouts, but nobody could provide him with a substantial answer, even if they all probably knew where the other was with some hierarchal sixth sense or something.

"I think I've seen him by Margaret, you know? With the blue dress?"

"Last time I saw him was with Clara by the buffet."

"I reckon he was at the loo." Gee, why didn't he think of that? He must've missed him at every chance he got to search the loo (sarcasm, obviously).

In about his thirty fifth attempt, he was about ready to give up, but he halts the moment hears a questionable amount of chanting that came from the floor above.

So after excusing himself from a bland, one-sided conversation with a someone named Carlos, or Merlin, he stumbles to another set of doors that he thinks will lead him to where he was aiming to be.

-

As he approaches closer and closer, the voices got louder, and more frantic, and lively all the same.

There was only one entry way towards the attic, so it didn't take too long for him to find Harry in the center recreational, along with other faces he hadn't seen before. They were playing a typical game of spin the bottle, while sharing on rolled-up weed.

Louis doesn't hesitate trudging towards the group, and setting a soft, yet firm grip on Harry's shoulder.

The curly haired bloke blinks slowly, before tilting his head back, beaming innocently at Louis.

And he would've tacked that one as the first time Harry had genuinely smiled at him, but he didn't think it counted when the bloke's hair is in disarray, his pupils were blown into thin strips of green, and red-rimmed, and his vision was a bit unfocused, just bordering on unconscious in courtesy of the marijuana's effects.

Louis' scalp prickles immediately.

"Mr. Tomlinson." He slurs, voice as thick as syrup, a string of spit running down a corner of his mouth. "I was wondering when you'd come looking for me."

The group didn't seem to mind the interruption, too out of it to protest, and just carry on from where they left off, and spinning the empty bottle on the center.

"I've been looking for you for three fucking hours, you prick!" He grits, trying to keep his tone even. "Where the hell have you been all this time?!"

Harry blinks dazedly, his smile blinding, but hauntingly vacant, just a tiny bit lingering. "Well clearly," he states after a long pause. "You haven't tried at all, 'cuz I've been 'ere all this time, and you never once thought to look up?"

"I was fucking looking everywhere, I didn't kn--"

"Harold!" One claps excitedly. "Kiss me, it's your turn to kiss me!"

And Harry obliges, smirking as he devours the blonde's mouth in seconds, nibbling on her lower lip with a small wink that sent her giggling, before diving back onto his lips the second time.

Louis clenches his fists for a brief second. He's not fucking transparent, is he?

"You know what? Let's go. It's time to go back." He announces, glaring at anyone who whined in protest.

Harry rolls his eyes after feeling the tug at his arm, attempting to sluggishly pry away from Louis' lethal grip.

"Get the fuck out!" He garbles. "I'm finally having fun, and you're just here to ruin it all."

"For fucks sake, why can't you fucking listen to me for once, and go?!" These people are not safe, he wanted to add.

"Why do you care?!" Harry snipes. "I am nothing to you but another job to fulfill, you don't need to fucking pretend to be someone who actually gives a fuck about what happens to me."

"Harry." He rasps. I do care dies at his throat. "Just because I was hired doesn't mean that I have no right to sympathize about another being, alright?!" And fuck, he feels his innards clenching. "I'm looking out for you, because you're making a fool out of your miserable self, getting high in a place where nobody would even bat a lash if you dropped dead right now."

"And you're saying that you'd take action?" Snarls Harry. "What makes you a fucking exception? I'm not a pity party. I can take care of myself just fine."

He releases a shaky breath. Okay, so he will do this.

"Because as much as I'd like to get rid of you, it's proving to be more of a hassle to try to distance myself from all this." There, he's finally said it, something he's been thinking about all those times that he had been spurned away, every time that Harry had given him the cold shoulder. He's finally said it out loud.

Harry mumbles a small, resigned fuck off, with a withering leer before forcing his attention back to the game.

But Louis has had enough. If Harry's not willing to go back, then he might as well force him to. Even if he had to beat the defiance out of the boy.

Without a seconds hesitance, he forcefully yanks Harry to his feet, stumbling backwards slightly to meet his back with Louis' torso, and head to collide with his jaw.

Harry groans, trying to pull away again, but Louis had the gift of better coordination, so safely maneuvers Harry away from those soul-sucking harpies without another word, because if he had to stay any longer, he fears that he might hurl an irrational punch, which could get him in jail for public violence.

-

He manages to get back towards the parking lot, void of any prying eye. There were more cars and limousines parked, prior their arrival, but he had no problem locating his vehicle, and successfully opening the passenger's side, to allow Harry to slump towards it, so that Louis can properly buckle him up.

He immediately heads over to the driver's seat without another word, starting up the engines, and heading back towards their flat. But not without leering at the whole property on his way out.

Privileged? Yes.

Wealthy? Undoubtedly.

Responsible? Don't even make him laugh.

What.a.joke.

It's only by a miracle that he was able to survive through it all.

Harry conks out about another minute in, but Louis' mind is stuck in purgatory.

He distantly thinks of the words he'd uttered to Harry at the party, and realizes just how screwed he really was, and that there's no way in getting out of it.

But what scared him most, was how unaffected, and ecstatic he was by the thought, how alive he'd felt as opposed to the fixed monotony he'd had inhabited for the past 25 years of his life, how Harry was the catalyst to the changes in this new lifestyle.

He fears the start of a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No songs were used for this chapter, but I'm planning to make a playlist or something at each one, so it'd be appreciated if you guys are willing to contribute (If you'd like, no pressure)! Happy belated Valentine's Day, and I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter!!! :))


	7. Friendly Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Mrs. Maddy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the previous chapter was getting a bit too hairy, so I split the chapter in half, and hope that this will appease. Sorry for the long wait, here you go:
> 
> Ps. The object Harry's referring to is a Fushigi ball, it's sick! I want one.

-

And the clock continued to tick.

The duo had just gotten back from the wine tasting, and either of the two have breathed a word, with Harry coincidentally rousing when Louis was just about to ask him for the entry code, and plugged the 4-digit sequence onto the keypad, then turning his attention elsewhere.

Pulling up, Louis hadn't put much thought to Harry's state when he fumbles with his seat buckle, and ran out the door, only to wobble a step. Louis would've guessed that the bloke would fall flat on his face by now, which is why he takes long strides in order to catch him by the arm to get him in order, and not fall like Louis had initially predicted, only to have it yanked away vehemently, along with a half-hearted leer.

Louis was reluctant to leave the boy's side, so he purposely fumbles with his keys to do some manual lock check, intentionally falling a few steps behind, and watching Harry closely, albeit sleuthing, as the bloke teeters at every other step, trying to mask the action horribly, by shifting his footing inside his boots with a dull thump at every stumble.

Harry eventually makes it to the front door, and he rushes in without looking back, locking the only entrance in the process (a definite change from what he'd noticed as of late). Louis--in turn--groans (of course), pulling out his own key (that was conveniently left in the middle of one of the cushions he sat on for a nap--he meant to bring the situation up sooner, but it seemed that Harry had already another pair, so the subject wasn't brought up), and keying the door open, right when he sees Harry's door slam to a close.

He sighs tiredly, knowing that Harry'll probably stay up in his room, and forgetting the world, doing whatever else he does when he's alone, and Louis still continues to live on.

At these times, Louis is forced into reminiscing his cherished memories at the vet, pulling out a scalpel when it's needed, lending a hand when Mrs. Maddy needed a somebody to support with the upcoming breeding. He's been through it all. Many times. And he wonders when he began transforming into this person who didn't like to share too much, who looked at life, as another duty to fulfill. It's disheartening, really, that it took a job he never wanted to force-on another change.

It's even more depressing that he'd always have to resort to having to question his every choice whenever he had time to himself. God, there's got to be something better than just sitting around in stiff clothing, wistfully pleading for a distraction, anything to appease his boredom.

And then he remembers that he actually has friends and that they should at least know that he's alive.

He pockets for his phone immediately, only to frown in defeat, noticing his dead mobile.

He follows Harry's example (or what he had assumed something Harry would do, so _his_ example, yes), and heads over to plug up his phone, with Liam worrying--like the fucking mother hen he was--about Louis' well-being, tucked onto his fingertips, after guilting Niall to telling him about how he and Harry had a fight, and that if they made up, or that he is now secretly living on the streets, nibbling on dog-crackers as his only source of food.

Which of course, received a very strongly worded reply, thanking Liam for thinking so very little of his capabilities, along with a sweet, very explicit 'fuck off', followed by a winky face.

He falls asleep before the reply could arrive.

-

Louis was in the nearly reaching the end of the Breaking Bad marathon, when Harry finally (finally) chooses to make an appearance. It had been precisely two days since he's seen the bloke, let alone breathe the same air as he did. He had been holed up in his room the entire time, occasionally moving, occasionally just stopping all activities together--there's never a constant with the bloke (there was a limited amount of activities to do in the flat, naturally the curiosity of whatever his flatmate was doing was a given--don't judge), which is why Louis'd been stuck questioning what he does, all-day-everyday. It's maddening.

Heck, the only way he knew the lad was alive, was that the pantry is slowly (but surely) dissolving one-by-one, leaving nothing but clean dishes inside the dishwasher, available for use the next day.

But now that he is present, the bloke just appeared like he would a normal day, taking measured, meandering strides towards the kitchen, probably looking for anything to eat, then probably heading back towards his room once more, as if all is well, and resume his brooding.

That's not how it turned out at all. To his surprise, Harry had shuffled to where Louis was (even if there might've been clearly a large enough space to arrive from anywhere), brushing along his path for a few measly seconds, before situating himself towards a recliner, and crossing his legs, eyeing the show attentively.

Of course, Louis wasn't exactly paying attention the whole time, because he was busy distracting himself from appearing too wrapped up in his whole inquisition with Harry, while idly sipping at his tea in silence, trying to see how Breaking Bad will end.

He was just reaching up to the part where Walt slides over the gun to Jesse, and tells him to kill him. Jesse then takes hold of the pistol, pointing the weapon towards Walt, and--

The telly closes at that point, and Louis' looking beyond that, too caught up in the moment, the adrenaline catching up with him, leaving him at a temporary haze till he realizes that the telly is indeed closed, and that he wasn't only imagining it.

His eyes drift to Harry, to find that the material he held on his hands.

The remote?

Son-of-a-bitch.

Since when did he get that?

And then he remembers that Harry had passed by him earlier, and maybe the brush of the knee wasn't just a coincidence that he'd hoped.

"What the fuck?!" He screeches, affronted. "I was watching that!"

Harry merely blinked at him. "I wasn't."

He tugs at his hair. "Look," he sighs. "It's about to end, and it's the last episode of the whole series, you can watch whatever the fuck it is you want; be it opera channel, or even watching something fucked up, like, I don't know, the American Horror Stories, just let me get through with this, and you can have your turn, alright?"

"The ending's pretty obvious though." Answers Harry. "'S pretty predictable that they'll both survive, and that everything'll be okay. That's always how it almost always goes about, doesn't it?" He inquires in addition. "Pixies, unicorns, and fairy dust? The usual gist?"

Oh my god.

Louis inwardly palms at his face.

"But I wouldn't know till I fucking see it, won't I?"

"Trust me, it'll end that way." Harry insists adamantly. "It always ends that way. The Beast turns back into a Prince, Sleeping Beauty awakens from her enchantment, and Ariel ends up with the prince that caught her adrift. Humans aren't exactly as authentic as they make themselves to be."

"For pete sakes." Louis implores vehemently. He just wanted to finish the damn show considering he hadn't had too much time to get caught up because of spending a ridiculous amount of overtime at the vet. And now that he does have the time of day to spare, he couldn't even do that, because lo and behold, Harry wasn't even watching the damn program, which must make it okay to turn the program off. "Can't I just fucking watch the damn show, so that I can finally get on with my life?!"

Harry snorts. "What life, exactly?" He jests, in poisonous derision that almost tasted sweet. Almost. "Please do provide me with a decent list that will leave one, speechless and in quandary."

Louis merely narrows his eyes, his teeth clenched tightly, his fists tucked within his sweatpants.

Surprisingly he doesn't punch him in the face.

Harry merely takes his lack of response as an opening to his own monologue.

"Let me take a gander." He hums, jumping up from his cross-legged position on the recliner, to tap thoughtfully at his chin. He doesn't look at Louis, but he does circle slowly around the vicinity. Like a predator playing with his food. "You're frivolous, probably on the precipice of absolute boredom."

Louis opens his mouth to protest, but Harry continues on, as if he hadn't heard him.

"You literally have nothing to live for--nothing to die for either. You have friends, but very little can actually handle the way that you are--who you are, so you rarely see them. The feeling is mutual on both sides."

And Louis' ears are ringing, his face flushing slightly in contempt.

"Your parents are probably sweet, loving ones that cuddle you at night, swaddle you with a blanket and cuddles while you're sick, and kiss you goodnight, and you're just here, just so that you could earn extra bills to cater to your needs, since mother and father dearest are broke because of your hedonistic ways."

Louis doesn't immediately take it all in at once, but he finds himself straddling Harry, whole body shaking with lividly, as he locates his fingertips on Harry's neck, from how _furious_ he was. Because... because he doesn't know why. He knows-- _knows_ \--that less than half of the things that the bloke had said had been complete and utter bull, but the fact that he'd even taken the whole conversation _that_ low, to something more interpersonal, more probing, _out of spite_ , just because Louis had wanted to finish a television show is fucking ridiculous.

He wanted to throw punches, wanted to choke Harry till he couldn't feel the venom anymore, couldn't feel the hard thudding of his overworked heart that's threatening to inhabit a life of its own. He's just feeling _too much,_ and he could barely even contain it within himself, but he somehow manages, still remaining on his knees, with Harry's waist in between his thighs, his hands trembling on Harry's neck.

Too much.

This is too much.

But then.

But then, what made the situation all the more fucked up, was that Harry made no movement to stop him.

Out of the whole fucking time that he'd been straddling the lad, Harry had remained in the same position, face blank and unfeeling, like looking into the chasms of an endless void, like looking into oblivion. There's perpetual darkness in there, void of any light. The greens are swallowed up in dark hues, unseeing, unblinking. His whole face looked serene, procured from the latest magazine of marionette monthly. He's existing, but he could easily disappear within the snap of a finger, can rot into the earth's core, and would think nothing of it. He could have a stake to his heart, and would probably thank his killer. This, this was a part of Harry that he probably wouldn't have noticed if he didn't look hard enough, and for some reason, he finds that he is out of breath.

_"..I got this phone call from the hospital about a long lost mate of mine..."_

_"..recently found in his building with sliced up wrists, and was filed in for attempted suicide."_

**_Fuck._ **

What was he supposed to do now?

He still has Harry by the neck, but only his fingers were there, just lightly grazing on the porcelain skin.

Harry, he had remained pliant all throughout, just waiting for the ending that he'd been planning, staring expectantly at Louis.

But he couldn't do it, he couldn't, this is not him. He refuses to be associated with anything relating a suicide, no matter how much he despises the bloke.

"Well?" Harry raises a brow, after a few long moments. "This is the part where you'd suffocate me to death, and hide my body under some thistles, or bury me at the back, where nobody would ever dared to look, and--"

But Louis sighs, shaking his head. He didn't feel the compulsion anymore, just felt the remnants of the anger he felt to seep away, as if it was the passing wind. That it had been a total wake-up call that he hadn't thought to expect. Because as much as he's thought it, he couldn't carry out Harry's murder, no matter how badly he wanted to.

"What? Now you don't feel like it anymore? That's pathetic, you pathogen, I bet that you're still stuck on the mone--"

His hand throbbed from where it had came into contact with Harry's cheek, only leaving a slight flush handprint on his cheekbone.

"Don't even fucking start, you fucking curly-haired bastard." He growls through gritted teeth. But he's not quite sure why he's suddenly irritated. "If I'd wanted to kill you, then I would've done it at the first chance I got."

Harry rolls his eyes, unaffected. "Right, because you wouldn't earn that wa-"

But Louis interrupts just as fast. "And I fucking told you that I didn't care about this job." He reminds him. "I told you, that I can have my luggage packed at any time, no problem, but you.just.wouldn't.let.me."

"And you even fucking told me the bullshit with the plans changing?! What the fuck is with that? You're not just some fucking president of the United States, you're just as human as the rest of us." Or maybe a little more demonic. "So don't fucking think so highly of yourself, alright? You're not exactly a golden idol to worship."

Harry regards him silently, but doesn't reply. He'd take that, rather than an insulting chatterbox at any day.

Louis takes that as the cue to pull himself up from his bowing position, to standing upright, but he does stumble slightly when he finds that Harry repositioning himself from where he's laying down to latch onto Louis' wrist to hoist himself up as well, then detaching within seconds.

Louis glares daggers at him.

"If you'd wanted to get up, you could've just done that yourself, you know?"

And Harry beams, like literally fucking beams like his teeth is spewing sun rays, and Louis' made of skittles. But it doesn't reach his eye. It never does.

"And to miss the opportunity of possibly having to see you fall face first onto granite floor? Who is it that you think I am?" He crosses his arms tightly against his chest.

 _A fucking pain in the thorax is what you are._ Is what he wanted to voice out.

Louis rolls his eyes.

Of.fucking.course

"I'm not exactly that inept to pull someone up." He sniffs, avoiding any form of eye contact. "Not that I was intending to help you out anyway."

"Fallacy!" Screeches Harry. "I call a fallacy, sir Tomlinson." And what? Since when had he transitioned from a lonesome flower to buckets of rainbows?

Louis groans, rubbing the heel of his palm, getting up to go to his room. Too much. "Work on your transitions, please." He pleads. It's hard seeing a wilted mess to resurrect into a fucking daisy.

But it seemed that Harry had already began ignoring him again, when the lad trails in after him, only to enter inside his room, and once again locking it.

He rolls his eyes, entering into his own room, and flinging himself into his walk-in-closet.

-

Checking himself another once-over through the mirror, he immediately tugs on another corner of his jean jacket, before declaring himself--to an extent--decent. Of course, there's some minor kinks here and there (with a lop-sided strand--that he couldn't--for the life of him--ever fix--on one side of his hair, and the inevitable eye bags on his lids), but he guesses it's nothing too major to be repaired extensively.

He whistles on his way down the stairs, till he catches sight of Harry, dressed in an immaculate (albeit fucking hipster) gilt triangle shirt, along with black, fitted skinnies to accompany his skinny girl legs, his hair is recently washed (seeing as it hangs glisteningly on his neck) and his feet are adorn in gold...boots? He holds a small, transparent ball at hand, and it slides through his skin like magic, twirling, sometimes gliding in different inches of his arms.

"What the hell is that, exactly?" He asks, playing with the hem of his jeans. He kind of wants to play with it, but he'd doubt if Harry would even let him.

"It's a ball." Harry dead-pans, staring flatly at him. "Were you deprived of entertainment as a child as-well?"

"I'll show you entertainment." He grumbles beneath his breath. "I get that, but why is it able to defy gravity?"

"Then why hadn't you inquired about that instead?" Questions Harry. "It would save everybody a lifetime if individuals would learn to ask the right questions."

Then he just kept on rambling on about different scenarios about childbirth, and car repair, and it just went on for ages, and ages, till Louis got a cramp, waiting for his point in the one-sided conversation, till he concludes with a: "--and it would do humanity a favour, rather than pointless ambiguity."

And Louis blinks out of his haze, finding that Harry's just staring at him, like he's supposed to make a statement out of that.

"That was, um, an insightful speech, you got there?" He risks, tapping at his thigh, his feet demanding his attention. "First world problems and all that."

"Well..thank you.." And he sounded..shy, like he's embarrassed of providing his thanks. So Louis looks up, and Harry's not even staring at him anymore, just toeing his boots on the carpet, his head bowed, and shoulder hunched. He resembled a tiny school girl on her first day, just too lost within her own head to notice that she needed to take a seat to start class. And it's totally out of character, yet terribly endearing, that Louis finds that the action actually suited Harry perfectly, fitted him like another pair of gloves.

There was a moment, when they just stood silently, not risking another word. Harry doesn't speak, and neither does Louis.

But then he snaps out of whatever reverie he was in, to feign a cough, flick a loose strand of his hair, and head awkwardly towards his car keys on the key hook.

He doesn't mutter a goodbye, just turns towards his vehicle, closing the entrance, and flicking the locks open with a press of the button.

He opens the door towards the driver's side, only to jump at his seat, the moment he notices Harry, buckling his seat belt onto place.

"What are you doing in my car?" He squeaks, clutching his chest slightly. "Weren't you just in the flat?"

Harry gives him a bored look, before turning his attention at the windshield. "And now, I'm not." To Louis' surprise, he humors him.

"Yeah, I got up to that." He snorts. "But my question is, why are you in my car?"

"Because the door's open."

"It wasn't, though." Louis protests. "The door wasn't open."

Harry rolls his eyes, crossing his arms on his chest. He still doesn't meet eye-to-eye with Louis. "If we're speaking in semantics, your door was open, even if the frame was not physically open; the lock to the car was unlocked, which therefore concludes that the door _is_ \--to the extent--open."

Louis groans onto his palm. "Harry."

"What?" Harry looks to him now, brows furrowed. "I was merely justifying my point."

"I mean, why are you in my car?" He says slowly. "There's nothing for you to attend, no major events, and you hate me, why?"

Harry shrugs, knowing that he couldn't prevaricate further, hands resting idly on both his thighs, attention still on the windshield wipers.

Louis sighs, wiping a hand on his face.

"You're really not going to tell me, are you?"

Harry turns his head towards his respective window, mouth pursed onto a thin line, and his brows are beaten into a stubborn v shape.

Guess not.

Louis sighs, defeated.

"Well then, I guess you'd have to accompany on my trip, then."

And he starts the engine.

-

"Alright, we're here." Louis announces chirpily.

Harry frowns from his seat, crossing his arms petulantly.

"I don't suppose you could tell me where we are?"

"Heaven." He replies, smirking.

"Oh, I don't suppose you'd get me some refreshments, then?"

"Pardon me?"

"Seeing as you'd claim this drab as Christianity's religious panacea, I don't suppose that you'd get me refreshments?" He answers, clipped. "You are _the_ help, aren't you?"

Louis snorts through his nose.

"And would you like a side of hors d'oeuvres to come with your refreshments, sir?"

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but Louis chuckles, shaking his head.

"I was joking."

"Well, I wasn't." Snaps Harry. "Where exactly _are_ we?"

"The church." Louis hums. "Here to atone for my sins."

Now it was Harry that snorts, an indignant scowl etched in his face, looking to be mildly murderous.

"What? For assisted homicide?"

Louis doesn't answer, and instead clicking his tongue.

"Geez, are you still thinking that I'm always out to get you?"

"There is no evidence that you're not."

Louis clenches his fist slightly, Harry's eyes follow the movement, tilting his head with a dimple kissing the side of his cheek. He's smirking as if he was about to say something profoundly stupid, and irritating, like every Disney villain in history.

"And besides, now that I take a good look at you, you do bear that tenacity, possibly underhanded, and influential feel to you, which means that perplexity would be a lost when it came to you, Mr. Tomlinson."

Louis inwardly groans, fighting his urge to wanting to correct him, and that he was nowhere being what Harry had claimed to be, and that he was being a downright tit, but he figures it wouldn't do him any, so he plays along.

"Fine, I'm killing you." He replies flatly. "But just wait here, yeah? I have to go hire meself some sordid henchmen from Evil 'r us with the side of a freeze ray. Be right back."

And just as Harry was about to reply, Louis quickly unbuckles from his seat, closing the door in an instant.

Harry was glaring from where he was leaning on the cushion of Louis' seat, mouthing out muted words, and affronted growls.

But Louis just smiles and waves. He figures that Harry'll probably be able to entertain himself for a little while.

-

"Lou!"

"Mummy Mads!"

They both call out for each other, and Louis engulfs his employer: she's a petite lady, roughly around five feet, barely poking out from her oversized pink nursing scrubs, with bronze-coloured straight hair, and blue eyes. She still smelt of bubble gum and nutmeg.

She's familiar, and she's safe.

It could very-well warrant for a second home, if he was being quite honest.

Louis finds himself melting onto the embrace.

"And how have you been, moppet?" She croons from his shoulder, stroking his cheeks sweetly, then to his eye bags. "Your job not treating you too well?"

Louis shakes his head, shrugging.

"'S not exactly bad.." He trails off. Not exactly good either. "Just that... It's not this clinic, so.."

Mrs. Maddy only tightens her hold on him, humming closely to his heart.

"Aw, sweetie!" She gasps softly. "You know you're always welcome here, aren't you? Heck, even Bess' starting to getting fussy after not being able to see your face in here."

"You mean Bess is just finally realizing that he's missing his favourite scratching post?" He jokes, chuckling when Mrs. Maddy tuts, flicking his collar bone lightly, before pulling away, though she did keep her grip at both his elbows. He mirrors the touch.

"Oh, Lou." She giggles, her eyes glittering with amusement as she speaks. "You know Bess loves you."

Louis sniffs, wiping his index finger under his nose. "Only when he's clawing at my eye."

"Hush you." Mrs. Maddy reprimands, lips curling into a smile.

"So where is the little bugger?" He questions, scratching the back of his neck as soon as Mrs. Maddy releases him to pour him a cup of tea. "Is he here now, or--"

And he finds a hasty, grey blob launching itself towards his leg.

There he is.

Mrs. Maddy smiles, handing him the styrofoam cup after he could reach down to pet the little rascal at the side of his ears.

Unsurprisingly, he purrs happily, nuzzling closer to the touch with a small 'mew', tail vibrating in occasional waves.

"Thank you." He smiles, taking a small sip of his drink.

She nods, leaning onto her medical table.

"So, why'd you drop by out of the blue?" She questions, attentive. And if he didn't know her well-enough, he'd have thought that she was pushing him away, but he knew she only meant good things, curiosity even, but never spurning. The idea seemed to dawn in her as well, when she immediately corrects herself. "N-Not that I'm displeased with your visit, I--"

But Louis shakes his head, still smiling, his head bowed.

"Just dropped by to see you, love." He affirms, squeezing her elbow with his free hand. "Plus, I've been missing your brew for a couple of days, so.."

"Oh honey, you know it's just plain 'ole Yorkshire, right?" She states. "You could make some for yourself. You're a big boy."

Louis shrugs easily. "It's not the same."

And she captures him into another hug.

"You could drop by any time, whenever you want to."

"But not at during lunch time on Fridays, I know." He rolls his eyes playfully.

"Anyways," she huffs, ignoring his comment, and placing her hands on her hips as she straightens her stance. "I heard you moved out of your flat? Are you staying in Manchester, or.."

Louis was lost in the moment, that he almost forgets that he left Harry in the car for who knows how long now.

Oops?

He's definitely a horrible person.

"I actually have, er, a bloke at my car right now, and he says he was hungry, so.." He shrugs, sheepish.

"You left him out there the whole time?" Mrs. Maddy gasps. "Lou, you should bring him in, or something, he might get worried."

Yeah, right.

But Louis chuckles, shaking his head, as he picks up Bess that's gotten up to the countertop and pecks him on the nose, then Mrs. Maddy on her temple.

"Well, I guess I better be going now." He announces, hugging his boss, while Bess leaps gracefully beside his feet. "It's been great seeing you, Mummy Mads."

"And to you too, love." She whispers back, kissing his cheek. "Introduce me to your friend when you can, alright?"

"But he's not--"

He snorts on the inside, but he finds himself nodding nonetheless.

"Alright."

-

Louis arrives back to his car with fish and chips on both his hands, with Harry curled up on his window. His eyes were closed, and his lips were slightly pursed. There's a light beading of moisture on his jaw, and his face is a bit flushed. He seemed.. tensed.

If Louis was to guess, he'd have expected that Harry'd been playing with something in his car, or blasting the radio in some hipster station, but apparently, he didn't, only drifting off in the car (which was surprisingly cold, so he turns the heating up right away--he definitely does not scan Harry briefly for any signs of hypothermia, he does not).

Weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very ominous, no? ;))


	8. Mother Dearest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis gets two phone calls (and then some) and a text.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, it's absolutely vital that you'd read the after-note. Sorry I had taken too long, the outline was being tedious, but I somehow managed. Please enjoy the chapter!

-

His backpack.

**Check.**

His remaining toothbrush, and tooth paste.

**Check.**

His only few comfortable indoor clothing, and decent casual/formal attires.

 **Check** and **check**.

iPod, headphones and both chargers.

 **Check** , **check** , and **check**.

Louis was nearly done re-packing, and he still feels as if his job hadn't sunk through as much as he'd like to think.

Just last week had been a constant bore of party, after party, after party, and just when he thought he'd had enough, there is actually an after party after a gala that he remembered Harry had been invited to by Mrs. Carter (or Ms. Carter, as she'd most likely to be referred to as, upon delightful friends--namely Louis for that matter), but he hadn't the slightest of thought that the invitation had applied to him as well, as he found that there's also his name tag alongside Harry's in bolded, silver calligraphy, with the side of goody bags that included freshly plucked red roses, and a few too many boxes of chocolates.

Doesn't necessarily mean that he's a grouch with anything relating to fun, but to be stuck with a few stuck-up, ornery socialites and celebrities gets a bit much, when there's never a conversation that he'd want to acknowledge.

"Like, he couldn't even understand the difference between Dior and Givenchy."

"The fucker just barely grazed my new Audi. It's like he was just aiming to get sued for all he has."

"She was crying because I broke her tablet, like c'mon, I could easily get a new one, why can't she?"

Normally he'd be flattered by the gesture, considering that apart from Carla's need to stick alongside Louis with the absence of her husband (that he has vaguely heard to be attending a fishing trip with his colleagues--typical), latching onto his bicep with perfectly manicured nails, it did raise a few red flags when he notices that amongst all guests, he and Harry had been the only ones to receive roses, while the others had received a random assortment that included Ivy leaves, Bluebells, and Rosemary flowers.

He figures there's a significance to each one of them, but he hadn't had the slightest interest to ever finding out, so he donates the roses to a local flower shop, informing them of its hindrance to his eyes (an exaggeration), and demand that they make use of it instead. Harry looked enamored with his, so Louis hadn't bothered with that.

Though he did make use of the expensive of the chocolates (along with Harry's, who glared at the box for about an hour, before throwing it at Louis, claiming that he had no interest for sweets, and that it's his collateral for at least appearing less whiny than his usual attitude, which should be offending, but hey, more sweets, who could complain?), rehashing himself on the Breaking Bad Marathon, and finally finding out that Walt had not been shot, and that he had died in the meth lab because of a wound he had gotten earlier, while Jesse runs of elsewhere.

Simple but effective.

It's not exactly much of an ending if he was to be asked about it, but he figures that it made sense after all the shit they've gone through, having run an illegal business of meth distribution, but he reckons it's close enough to Harry's depiction in some mundane sense (a fact that he wouldn't dare bring up again, in case Harry brings about the topic to possibly rub Louis' nose on it--which he is most certain of).

He also had managed to get ahold of Zayn somewhere in the week, informing of his plateaux, and that Harry had been keen on maintaining his title of a socialite, by attending almost every major event held, and that he swears that Harry had been productive when it came to boring Louis to death.

To which Zayn had laughed at the screen for almost twenty minutes, and even had water run up his nose when Louis brings up the situation with Mrs. Carter, and her pursue fiasco, when he had accidentally (probably on purpose) spilled red wine on her ivory Versace dress, in an attempt of meandering anywhere, where she isn't present, which caused him to stumble on a particular mound where the rug had a particular crease.

He hadn't thought of the situation to exude laughter, seeing Mrs. Carter's face flair to a matching vermillion tint when all attention was brought to her during the incident, but Louis' pretty satisfied by the end of that, seeing as he doesn't see a strand of the familiar golden locks for the rest of the night.

He was then later told, that she hadn't felt well all evening, which spurred her to retiring early, but Louis (along with a few too many guests) knew of the real reason, but a debate about the incident was never brought up--well, not amongst the gala's vicinity at least, to Louis' dismay.

Zayn had then inquired about whether he liked his job now, which lead to Louis grumbling out a menacing 'fuck off', before hanging up with a hasty--albeit slobbery--kiss from Zayn on the screen as he clicks the hang-up button.

And now, they were just coming back from a family friend's get-together, when he suddenly gets a phone call.

Curious, he flips open his phone, reading Liam's name on the caller ID.

It's a bit daunting, knowing that Liam would call him during this time during the week, knowing that the boy could not possibly make a room for phone calls during his morning classes, but he accepts it nonetheless.

"Hey mate! How has life been?" Liam greets at an overly cordial tone.

He grits his teeth briefly. "Good, what about you? Anything new happen?" Tell me now, is what he meant.

"Oh, nothing much, really, just working on a few courses, and getting ready for mid-terms, you know, the usual." And there we go, he goes all out on endless dialogues that relate to certain people that weren't being too nice to him, to his favourite teacher, then right down to his breakfast.

He vaguely wonders if Liam had been an errant female in his past life.

"Like, it lacked bacon, right? So it was only proper that I'd ask for a new plate and all, since--"

"Liam." He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm kind of in the middle of packing my stuff here."

"Oh yeah?" He sounded chipper, as if he hadn't spoken for 10 bloody minutes about what he does during the day. "You traveling somewhere fancy? Anywhere I know."

"Yeah." He deadpans. "My flat."

"Well that doesn't explain anything at all." He could hear the pouting from the other line. Sigh.

"I'm actually at a party at the moment." Louis informs him. What's the harm? "And I'm just about ready to re-pack my stuff since I'll be back in the flat tomorrow."

"Oh." He replies. There's some rustling on the other line, which indicated that Liam's probably either in the washroom during his phone call, or he's wringing his fingers together. He guesses it's the latter.

Louis braces himself just in case.

"So, uhmmm, your mum called today."

Louis shits his pants.

"WHAT?!"

"Well, she'd been insistent with the phone calls, been telling us to get you to call her all week, but you've been changing your numbers too often that she couldn't get ahold of you." Liam replies softly, which does nothing to his wavering composure, and his urge to strangle a nearby object.

"And what did she want?" Louis answers while gritting his teeth.

"Well, she said something about family life being too much and--"

But he cuts him off instantly, already knowing what he was about to say, so he lets Liam ramble on for a beat longer, before he appropriately cuts in.

"--the twins were looking for their big brother."

"And did she say anything about missing me as well?" He inwardly snorts, his blood running rampant in his veins, his heart thrumming hard in something he already knew the answer to. He feels breathing constrict as he speaks. "Did she miss her son?"

"Of course she did." Liam insists, almost sounding strangled, but that's probably because of his concern towards Louis. "She says how she misses not being able to talk to you about life, and how your sisters insist that you come see them some time, and arrange a play date or something, because they miss their big brother."

So in translation, she needed his time to complain about the married life, and use his sisters as a ruse to get herself some time off, and let Louis carry on her role like he had done in his early years.

"I'm sure they do." He assents quietly, resigned. "And I miss them. So much." He vehemently adds, because somebody needed to know of his concern, somebody should be aware that he's not exactly an unfeeling robot that doesn't care for anybody or anything. He does care, but the feeling's already felt numb up to this point, already swallowed up his entirety, that he became one with it, and just stopped _feeling_ it all together, because it became a norm to him, had infused itself within his being, with his character that he didn't know when it ceased all together.

There was a knock to the door, but he ignores, only focused to Liam's soothing words.

"--I mean, you hadn't told me too much in your whole situation, but I can babysit them if you want?" His mate offers, determined. "I'm free during Thursday and Friday afternoons, so it shouldn't be that big of deal."

Amidst the storm that raged in his head, he manages to smile a little, because he is a bit grateful for the offer.

"Li, you know you've got early shifts at the bar during that time." He rolls his eyes, getting his breath to even out a little. Leave it to Liam to even consider such a selfless option. "Don't double-book yourself."

"But Bruno said that I could rest whenever I wanted to." He insists. Louis'd imagine the boy to be shaking his head stubbornly. "Just so long as I don't abuse the rights."

And there's that knock again, but this time seemed more insistent.

He holds a hand to cover the speaker.

"Gimme five minutes."

Then he dives back in on his conversation.

"You know I can't ask you to do something like that, Li." He sighs, positioning himself so that he faced the sun setting on the horizon, that flashes an amber light towards his face. He slides a hand on the window, almost as if stroking the flash of glitter that topped the ocean floor. "Your need your job."

"But I could--"

"Liam, it's fine." He assures his friend. "I'm sure she was just having a bad day, and needed to talk to someone."

"Are you sure?" Liam sounded hesitant. "I mean, my schedule's pretty flexible if I just--"

"Li, it's fine." He affirms. "Really, I'll call her after, if it's that important."

The knock echoes again, more demanding.

"Didn't I say to wait five minutes?!" He groans slightly. "Honestly, some people can't even fucking take a hint."

Liam giggles.

"I guess that's my cue to leave."

"Yeah." Louis agrees, smirking a bit. "Now you're eager for me to leave? Huh, Payne? I am hurt."

"Oh sod off." His voice sounded lighter, like he's caught on to the trick. "But I'll talk to you when you're free, yeah?"

"Sure." He assents. "Just call whenever."

"Okay, later mate."

"Bye."

And the call ends.

He hesitantly presses at his mum's phone number immediately, when he finds that the knocker seemed to take an interest in annoying Louis by incessantly knocking that tarnishes any form of propriety.

The phone rings just for at least three rings, and he's lead to voicemail. He tries the same ministrations to end with similar results, but the cancellation of the call appeared to equal less rings than its predecessor to immediately relocate him to the inbox.

So he opts to texting instead.

 _'Stop sending me mates messages.'_ Then. _'Just please tell me how much you need for the month, and leave them out of this.'_

Of course she's not going to answer.

She never does.

And he closes his phone, making a note to himself to get another cell number when he gets back.

As he was trying to collect himself, to allow some oxygen to meet with his lungs, is when he hears a loud thump thundering towards his door as it shivers at a standstill, and another, before a burly man in a black suit breaks the door from its hinges, catching himself as he enters, narrowing his sight on Louis.

"Sir, I was told that you were trapped in?" He inquires, brushing off excess chips of wood that scattered on his back and shoulder.

Louis couldn't help but gape.

"But I didn't--"

Then lo and behold, Harry makes an appearance, examining the threshold, specifically, the bits where the remains of the door was still held, eyes glittering as he examines the jagged parts that stuck out. He was dressed in an immaculate cream button up, blue skinnies, and a matching fedora atop his head.

"'M afraid you're mistaken, Johnson." Speaks the latter. "I had reported that _I_ couldn't enter, not Mr. Tomlinson."

Johnson merely nods, undeterred.

"May I be excused now, Mr. Styles?"

Harry nods, beaming brightly, holding up a couple of bills, and shoving it on the man's lapel, tapping it lightly.

"Now I'm sure that'll compensate enough for all your trouble?" He asks.

"Yes sir."

Johnson bows slightly towards Louis' direction, then Harry's.

He was gone within seconds.

"Harry, what..." He didn't know how to even begin, because who the hell would even consider manipulating a large man to break through doors? "It wasn't even locked, you know? You could've just came in."

"But I'd assume that you'd want to have a bit of privacy to accompany your rummaging." He motions towards Louis' half-packed luggage.

"I was packing." He annunciates in a slow drawl, like he's speaking to a child. "You know? Since we're leaving? Tomorrow?"

"Semantics." Harry waves a hand. "Besides, you hadn't answered to my knocking, so it's only natural that I'd made use of my resources available for use, no?"

"Harry, you literally broke through my door."

"Correction, Johnson did." Harry states as a-matter-of-a-factly. "There's a difference."

"Yeah?" He murmurs at a too small of a tone that Harry couldn't hear. "Why don't you tell that to my fist."

"And besides, I'm bored Louis Tomlinson, entertain me." He sits back on an arm chair, with his hand folded on the center of his lap, like he's sure that Louis'll follow through his demand.

It's like there's a snap that happened to inside Louis that got him to urge Harry to get up from his seat, and get him pass the wooden shreds, and back onto the hallway of the venue.

"If you really want to be entertained, then jerk yourself off for all I care." He barks. "You broke through my door, just so that you could see me perform a trick like a performing seal?"

He cuts Harry off before the bloke can utter another word.

"Go fuck yourself, you self-indulgent prick."

-

Okay, so last night might not have been one of his life's shining moments.

He didn't mean to snap, he really didn't. It's just Harry was being a total wanker, and to just break the door open, _just_ so Louis could cater to his amusement? It's like the bloke was asking for it, really.

It's a good thing that the event had enough funds to sell out the whole venue, so Louis had no problem with having to finish his packing, and switching to another room that same night, and getting a few hour snoozes before their departure.

He'd been planning to avoid Harry the whole way through, can practically be another kilometer away if he could, but they had to leave at early morning today, and not having to see his boss' son is getting close to impossible, especially when it came with the job.

He was just about to make himself a cup of tea, when there was a knock at the door.

Not wanting to risk a repetition of yesterday's events, Louis reluctantly opens the door, to see a bellhop who had his fist raised to continue with his knocking, but clearly, he wasn't expecting for Louis to answer immediately, which made him flush to the tips of his ears, then pulling his arm away to cough awkwardly at the sleeve.

"Mr. Styles, erm, told me to tell you to be down by nine, sir." The lad voices out, stuttering ever-so-slightly.

"Okay." Louis affirms. "Thank you."

And the bellhop just smiles politely and bows his head as some sort of a parting gesture, along with the apparent deliveries he had to make, and if Louis could have guessed, he sees a neat pile of bills sticking up slightly from the lad's trousers.

Wonder where he got that from. 

-

The moment he drags his luggage towards the lobby, Harry was quietly sipping at his milkshake by the bar, sitting on a three-seater couch with long, lithe legs clad with what appeared to be a pair of acid-black jeggings stretched towards the other end of the seat, a plain black shirt and he's still got that stupid brown fedora atop his head, when Louis approaches him, his admirers crowding closely at a seat nearby, almost in awe with the way they've distanced themselves when Harry so much as acknowledge where Louis stood.

"I'm here." He gruffs with a yawn. "You ready to go?"

But Harry just looked to be bored out of his mind, sipping at that one straw, briefly glances at Louis, then snorting as he forks at a bowl of fruits, and chewing at it in the slowest speed known to man, akin to a cow chewing on hay.

"Hello?" Louis waves a hand to his face to try to get his attention. "I do exist, you know?"

"I am aware, yes." Was all he says, popping a grape onto his mouth.

"Then why can't we get going? We don't exactly have all the time in the world, your highness."

"It's only a two hour drive." Provides Harry. "Besides, I'm partaking on the breakfast buffet, so if you'd like to wait outside, my necessities are already inside the trunk."

"But how did--" he shakes his head quietly. "Nevermind, if we get stuck in traffic, it was your call."

Harry hums, mouthing on a few finger sandwiches.

Louis groans onto his hands.

"Fantastic." He states sarcastically. "I should really just leave you here."

At that, Harry smirks sardonically, when Louis turns to leave.

"I'm sure my father'd really appreciate that."

Louis just flips him off without another word.

-

His phone buzzes when he catches sight of Harry approaching.

To his surprise, she actually does call him personally, which is a first amongst the few times he did try to reach her.

"Hello?" He answers, furrowing his brows.

"My darling boy, how have you been?" His mum croons on the other line.

"Good, good, um. What about you? Liam mentions that you needed to talk with me?" His heart was at his throat. He vaguely hears Harry yank at the door to open, but he's doesn't want Harry to make fun of him, or something if he catches in the conversation, so he keeps it closed, knowing that it would give him just enough time to catch a call with his mum. "Says that you tried to get ahold of me?"

"Oh, yes, Liam! Such a charming boy he is, isn't he?" She appraises proudly. "Did you know he's trying to get his medic degree?"

Louis rolls his eyes, but he hums softly, clearly uncomfortable with the subject.

"He has mentioned it in the passing, why?"

"No reason." His mum responds, nonchalant. And then she instantly dives in for the kill. "So, how's life been sweetie? Life getting better? How's that barista job you had? Doing well?"

Louis swallows the bile that threatens to rise up his throat.

"Mum, I told you, I quit that job, remember?"

"Oh yes, the clinic." She giggles. "How are you doing there, then? Become a vet yet?"

It's like she's taking blind shots in the dark, like she's stabbing at his skin over and over, and over again, and actually enjoying the hisses that escapes his lips.

Why did he have to answer to her phone calls?

"Erm, not exactly, I--"

"Oh dear me, have you gotten fired by the old hag? Was she not paying enough, I told you--"

"MUM! Can you please just..." His lungs are on fucking fire, smoldering his entire body in hot flames. "Don't do this, please. Not now."

"Why? Because you're in-love with the woman? That she can give you what you need, and I can't--"

"For pete sakes, can you please stop assuming what's going on in my life?!"

"Louis," she sighs. "I'm your mum, I know you better than anybody else, I know your worst, so don't lie to your mother."

"But I'm not--"

"Tell me where you are?"

"Why?" And his voice had gone squeaky now, rusty from the exhaustion of having to repeat himself over and over, to somebody who refuses to hear anything but the words she wanted to hear. "So that you can drag me back there? Just so that you can--"

"Louis, tell me where you are."

"No."

"Louis.

"No."

"If you don't tell me where you are, I'll--"

And he fumbles with his phone, hanging up, and setting his phone on silent, and throwing at the back of the car, and harshly opening his door to take a few calming breaths.

He sees Harry already in the verge of using another damn paperclip to get in on the passenger side.

When he notices Louis outside, and not on the driver's seat, he furrows his brow, before straightening his posture, examining Louis, as if he was some test subject who could blow up at any minute.

"Weren't you just demanding that I enter through this thing?"

Louis' eyes flutter slightly, tugging a chunk of his hair back in frustration.

"I... Yeah, j-just give me a minute, please?"

Harry's eyes widen a fraction, but he reluctantly nods, just once, as he situates himself inside, surprisingly up for co-operation. Something that he terribly needed right now.

He sets off to the loo.

-

A couple of flushes here and there, and a brief glance on his reflection, Louis was able to get his breath back, enough that he could finally deem appropriate to the public.

It was already lunch time, and he finally takes notice of his stomach grumbling.

The buffet is now serving lunch, so he figures that he may as well grab something for both of them to eat, knowing that they wouldn't be stopping by any mini-marts anytime soon.

Harry had better be grateful.

-

He arrives back around ten minutes later with containers full of food that he was allowed to get away with, and some that he had to sneak out, when a caterer started giving him the stinky eye.

On his way there, he sees Harry stomping on a piece of paper with his foot, and almost jumps when he notices Louis.

"Took you long enough." He grumbles underneath his breath, before raking his eyes over Louis, like he's slicing him up into tiny bits. "You sure did take your time, Tomlinson." He smirks. "Are you absolutely certain that you just took your own breath?"

Louis frowns, but ignores him, pressing at the red button from his keys to automatically open both doors.

"You won't be saying that once you begin thanking me." He states smugly, buckling himself in.

"Oh?" Harry raises a brow, following suit. "And to what universe will I ever humble myself, and heed to your nonexistent superiority?"

"Since I got us some food from the buffet." He almost sing-songs. "I bet you hadn't thought of that, have you, Mr. smarty pants?"

Harry rolls his eyes, crossing his arms.

"Just because I've informed you of my IQ being 182, I'd take it that you'd be more crafty with your insults."

Louis chews on his lower lip. Fair point.

"Whatever." He half-mocks, handing Harry his portion, and fumbling for the phone that he threw in the back seat, and booting it open. "Hey, did somebody call while I was gone?"

Harry digs into his roast pork, raising a brow.

"Am I your attendant now?"

He checks over caller history, snorting when he sees a few too many phone calls from his mum that was insistent on trying to get ahold of him. It's a good thing that it labels as blocked, so if Harry had heard anything, he might've thought of his mum as a blocked call, something that he had to confront Louis personally had he been a curious cat.

Thank god she hadn't even thought of leaving a voice message, let alone a text.

He sets it on vibrate.

"Nevermind."

-

They arrive back to their flat during the night, with Harry yawning, as he follows in after Louis, his luggages in tow, and rubbing tiredly at his eyes, before heading off to his room.

Louis almost forgets the shoulder bag that he's left by the front, when he coincidentally receives a message from an unknown number he didn't recognize, stating:

_'Don't underestimate the help.'_

Louis chews on his lower lip, wondering what the message could've meant, other than what he was provided.

But the most predominant question was, who exactly is being referred to? And had this message been meant for him, or somebody else?

He hesitantly texts a:

_'I think you sent this text to the wrong person??'_

But he never did get a reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmm, makes you question things, doesn't it? ;)
> 
> P.S. To anybody who's still reading this, I missed your comments! Please do come back!! 'M getting lonesome here. Kind of starting to think if this stories' starting to get boring (seeing as you guys have no thoughts on the chapter), so if you've got something to say (like feedback and such), please don't hesitate to do so. I love you guys!!! <333


	9. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you very much for all of your responses in the previous chapter. They fueled me to produce this update to the best of my ability (for now). The time frames might be out-of-wack, so please be mindful of that, for the purpose of what I'm trying to achieve with these characters. Happy reading, guys!

-

Louis' got to say, he's really outdone himself this time.

His bi-weekly shave had come through quite nicely, which meant that he had _just_ the right amount of scruff to frame his face to give him this sort of manly-rugged look, with just a hint of a stoic father. If he angled his jaw to the side, his cheekbones are just the right polish of a healthy tan, and his eye bags looked lighter as if airbrushed, even in the dim corners of the bathroom. His hair hadn't looked too bad either, set to a semi-fringe, where a half of them are styled to a messy stack on the left side of his face that leaves a quiet impression of primed, yet authoritative all the same. Perfect.

Now normally, he'd FaceTime Zayn right about now, knowing that the boy's style is just simply impeccable, and that he had often been Louis' trustee, his confidante when it came to opinions regarding his appearance, but yet he had chosen a different approach (knowing that the boy probably had classes at this time), and simply had gone with his instinct of a maroon shirt, and a black fitted cardigan, with a matching dark skinny jeans, along with the cleanest set of Vans that he ever owned--which is saying something, if he was being quite honest.

He had showered prior to the event, which meant that he was expecting to smell of Old Spice, with just a hint of musk from his aftershave, and hopefully clean and fresh, as he literally bathed in a fancy cologne from Gucci that he had purchased at his late teens, after his first ever pay roll.

Not that he was lacking in funds, of course, because that is clearly the opposite of his current situation.

When he had checked his bank account just a few weeks back, his bills went from the low, droopy thousand, to at least three, maybe five times that, all within one evening.

He vaguely send boastful texts towards Liam, Niall, and Stan, and an informative, not-at-all wipe to the face emoticons to Zayn, informing of his success, and how he's thankful to the lad for giving him the opportunity for such a bitter-sweet occupation, which got a winky face with a tongue sticking out in reply, along with a lowercase 'I told you so's', and that he wishes him luck with any future endeavors.

It's both ambiguous, and foreshadowing in so many levels, that Louis was tempted to send out half-hearted threats relating to hunting him down in the speed of Liam Neeson in Taken, and a shrill of whiney voice messages, when he knew the lad wouldn't answer, and hopefully get the message he's trying to spread properly across.

He had profusely sent his thanks towards his benefactor especially, attempting at a professional level, to at least (or attempting to) simmer down his squeals of overwhelming joy.

Des hadn't seemed to be quite the type to even get a rise out of his tone from their previous meetings, and as always, professionalism is carried all throughout, his tone unwavering, and sleek, a bit like a tiger perched atop boulders, and its prey cowering in what little space they are capable of, while the large cat licks at his talons, and his feline gaze slicing at every attempt of an escape.

"One month and not a single phone call to sue. How astounding.." The man remarks, but he didn't sound at all pleased by thought, hadn't sounded disappointed either. "How had the experience been? Has it been to your liking?" And what is this? A damn survey all-of-sudden?

Louis fumbles with his feet, shrugging to nobody at all, fumbling with a loose string if his shirt.

"So far had been quite... quirky, if I'm being quite honest, sir." Quirky? Really? Come on. He knew he had a better vocabulary than that.

He can stomp on his attempt of acting like a proper mid 20's adult now.

Des hums on the speaker, and there's a slight undercurrent of vague boredom in there, but at least he hides it well enough to keep the conversation at a steadfast.

"And you're sure of that?" He inquires, clipped, and definitely probing. He wonders how this man had continued sounding airy. "The boy's not blackmailing you, is he?"

What?

"Not at all, sir." He drawls, unsure of how to respond to the question. "At least not yet, I think."

"And he's not gotten you at a gun point? Hypnosis, probably?" What? What is this man even talking about? Hypnosis? Harry knew how to hypnotize people? Might as well add another bullet to one of Harry's many acquired talents. "Or wait, has he offered you a generous bribe to keep silent? Because I'd gladly triple his offer if you'd like."

Louis literally chokes on his spit.

"Excuse me?!"

"You heard me. If he's gotten you to keep information away from me, I'd be willing to raise your salary."

"But sir.." He chews on his lower lip. "What you're already giving me is enough, I--"

"Quadruple, I'd quadruple his offer." The man demands casually, like he hadn't even the slightest thought of how much cash he'd lose, just because of some nonexistent offer that Harry apparently had prepared.

But.

And a Louis literally hyperventilates for a few brief moments, because holy shit! He'd never even began to think of how much he could squeeze out of this job, let alone gaining more than what was proffered. He could be rich, he could be rich, and he's barely grazed into adulthood yet.

As much as undeniable wealth is tempting, he wouldn't know what to exactly _do_ with the small fortune.

Sure, he could definitely quit within the second month, and collect his biddings on a promise that he wouldn't ever associate his name with the Styles clan anymore, and that he wouldn't have to deal with Harry anymore, but...

He couldn't allow himself to go through with that decision, and it's the easiest, most safest option that he can land on, but.. he just couldn't follow through every steak that dangled in front of his face, as much as the temptation continued to assault his gustatory perception.

Plus, the news of a few extra cash would bring about unwarranted attention to him, when it came to a certain maternal figure in his life, and that he'd surely be hunted down to the ends of the earth, if she doesn't get a slice off of what he's earned. And he's not exactly exaggerating on that part, because she will literally take all sorts of action, just to get ahold of him.

Just another load to add to the weight on his shoulders, he guesses.

"Sir, I am certain that he definitely had not propositioned any sort of bargain, relating what might go about his itinerary."

There. At least he got the words out, void of any faint cracks in his tone that may have lurked about in the back of his throat.

"Oh?" He sounded surprised by the assurance. Maybe Des had expected the worst out of Harry. He's not sure if that fact settles well with him. Must be indigestion, because surely it's anything but fondness that gave a slight lurch to his gut. "That does not sound like him at all. Usually, he'd have screwed something up by now, which will lead to some sort of bargain to be dealt with, and there'd be a bidding war between the boy and I, till he had to physically take matters into his own hands."

Louis all-of-a-sudden felt sick.

What did he mean by taking matters in his own hands? Is his life in danger? Has Harry been alluding his murder all along?

Des might've taken Louis silence as a sign of resignation, because he squeezes in more information, when Louis was literally on the verge of a horrid vertigo.

"Which barely skims on the lethal side, but if you'd wanted, I can let you keep the cash now, if you're too overwhelmed with the idea, and we can arrange another meeting for your departure to discuss what path should be taken next, and how to approach it, no problem."

Louis swallows down slightly. The best he could do right now is to continue _breathing_ through his nose. He didn't want to give the impression of a creep that liked to breathe through the receiver phone, like some sort of ghost prank that he had remembered pulling back in his early teens.

Child's play, his mind hisses quietly.

"H-How far has he gotten before, if I might ask."

Des takes a couple minutes of silence, before he answers carefully.

"Well, I'm not exactly too invested in the boy's whole lingo, but when I tried to get ahold of his previous caretakers, they had to literally beg me to hang up, and erase their contact numbers from the file." Then he adds. "The only available one that I got ahold of long enough, is seeing a therapist at an institution. Says that the boy had done unspeakable things, and to request to not be contacted anymore."

Oh shit.

Holy fucking hell!

Was Harry that horrible to even get his previous babysitters to edge far up the ledge of insanity, just so that Des wouldn't be able to contact them anymore? Nothing's adding up.

In contrary to popular belief, that didn't sound a bit like Harry at all. Sure he maybe a pain in the arse, a jerk wad, and an inconsiderate asshole, but the stuff that Des had mentioned seemed a bit faulty.

But then again, they barely knew a thing about the other, which meant that blind assumptions can hardly be a viable evidence, from the short time he'd known the bloke.

And then that touched a cord with Louis' sanity, and that he was always been the ever curious boy that he had been growing up. And to hear yet another negative information regarding Harry, and a terrible incident felt a bit like a hard pill to swallow, if he was being truthful.

He really should've ran when he got the chance.

"So," he tests his own voice, doing inner manual checks, before proceeding. "There's not much information you know of what actually happened with his previous sitters, then?"

"Not substantial facts, no." Des assents quietly, a bit calculating. "Just information acquired in the passing."

Louis chews on his lower lip.

"Oh." He really shouldn't feel as relieved as he did. There's a possibility that he might not die after all. That's a relief.

"Forgive me, if I might ask, Mr. Tomlinson, but are you engaging in sexual relations with the boy?"

The boy this.

The boy that.

He's kind of irked by the way Harry's father had kept on referring to him.

And what?

His heart is literally in his throat, from how loud its beating. His face flushes an angry rose colour, right to the tip of his ears.

"No!" He squawks a little bit too late. "N-No, sir, I--We're not in a--" Louis' throat is literally working in an overdrive to prevent himself from rising a few octaves. "No, Mr. Styles." God, he sounded robotic. Close enough.

To his surprise, Des seemed undeterred with the ungodly squeak in his tone.

"Well, if you aren't, then it's fine. It's just usually, people would be falling on their feet to get on the same bed with him, men and women." Oh. That's... It shouldn't be a surprise in the least.

"Sir!"

"Okay, okay." His employer sighs on the other line. "But tell me, how has the boy been behaving so far? What does he do usually? Something raising some flags?"

Louis thinks for a moment.

"Well, he does keep himself preoccupied with something new most days--" from what Louis' seen so far. "--but mostly he keeps it to himself, stays a lot in his room."

And that got the line making some scrunched up noise.

"Stays in his room, you say..?" Mr. Styles trails off.

Louis nods, but then he remembers that he was speaking to the phone.

"Yes."

"Then I'll have a key made for you." Des states, light.

"Excuse me?"

"A key to the boy's room, yes." He repeats. "Is there a problem?"

"Sir, I don't think that's a good ide--"

"None sense!" Des disrupts immediately. "That boy could literally be doing things without your consent, and you'd be clueless as to how you'd take action."

"Sir, I--"

"My decision is final, Mr. Tomlinson. It would be for the well-being of the both of us if you follow through my instructions. You think you might know him, but the boy always finds a way to mess about things, and people." He says 'people', speaking pointedly at Louis. "Keep your guard up if you know what's good for you." And there's this hollowness to his tone, like reading directly from the script.

Louis sighs, exhausted.

"Yes sir."

And now, he has the key safely tucked beneath a thick pile of luggages that he wouldn't have bothered to unpack, still inside its casing, unopened.

He couldn't even touch, let alone open the bloody thing in the first place. Even the very idea that he's somehow abusing Harry's trust (though he doubts the bloke's even began taking that route--he can dream..or not, he's not so sure himself), by having access to enter his room.

The very thought of having that amount of power chills him to the very core of his bones, ices over his skin to form goose bumps and turn pale.

He then tries to forget it all together, because Harry hadn't given him the benefit of doubt, which should be a good enough of a reason to just tuck in on the back of his head in case he needed to gain access to it when needed, which is a better alternative than opting to abusing his position, to be quite honest (even if obtaining the object made complete sense), which is why he relentlessly drowns himself in his music when he'd so much as take a glance at Harry's closed doors when he needed to go down for a meal, explore the expanse of their flat (something that he admittedly should've done prior his tenancy), or visit his mates to rant about some of the obnoxious stories he's heard from pretentious figures.

It worked at least. For the time being.

Sigh.

He needed to find himself a hobby.

-

He winds down the stairs via railing, while whistling, as a soft breeze caresses his skin like satin. But that only proves to be a temporary deal, when he was a hair away from falling flat on his face, only to inadvertently catch himself in awkward stance, with one of his feet catching on the last step of the stairs, and the other landing on the floor about a step away.

That didn't any with his mood though.

He still felt inexplicably radiant, and cordial. A feeling that he absolutely refuses to associate himself with, a feeling that's only entitled to nothing but a sour day. He tries to will the emotion away.

He wishes he can stop the warm feeling that spreads over the tip of his fingertips, his toes, the smile that graces his face, even the small glitter in his eyes that he didn't have to look at his own reflection to see, but he simply couldn't, and that made it all the more frustrating.

He envisions a horrible day ahead, and it's barely even the crack of dawn yet.

-

He barely catches Harry by the dining table, clad in a blue checkered, buttoned up shirt, grey jeans, and shiny black boots. He wore his hair loose today, sprawled out in long, wavy curls that hung like hooks by his cheek, and like ringlets by his neck. He has a thick portion of curls that looked secure behind one of his pale, elfin ears that Louis definitely does not notice. His gaze is empty, lone, desolate, drifting to a particular corner in the ceiling, trapped in his own universe, that he doesn't even notice Louis shuffle towards the kitchen in a hunt for some breakfast.

Normally he'd voice out his presence to whomever was there to hear it, but he didn't think Harry would respond at all to his attempt of being civilized, he'd assume (like everyday) that Louis is up to something devious, and would demanded to know what particular thing had done Louis done this time, to which he would always shake his head in pity, instantly propelling Harry into a rage of blind assumptions, until Louis is forced to grit out his innocence, sending Harry to a full on strop, and huffing in resignation, distancing himself from Louis till they're due at a party that Harry was invited to.

Louis focuses on sliding glass screens open, flipping a few cupboards ajar, only leading to the discovery of a few kitchen utensils, and some cleaned plates and an array of grey, newly purchased, vintage teacups, baring ornamented designs on each one with either kittens, or any other depictions of professionally-drawn baby cartoon animals.

He really shouldn't be endeared, but he does anyway, smiling as he picks up a simple one, with small ivory bird sketches, scattered all throughout the cup, and along the handle, then closing the cupboard, of which he got it from.

Louis then grabs a kettle, and fills it up to the brim with tap water, and placing it over a stove, turned the dial up to medium, and almost preening, when he happens to catch a box of cinnamon toast crunch cereal box, unopened, and available for use (that he had almost forgotten purchasing, while he attempted to locate what imported Belgian yoghurt was, per Harry's extended shopping list).

When he had offered for Harry to do the groceries in his stead (knowing that the lad is properly acquainted to knowing where a specific item on his list than Louis was), the bloke merely rolls his eyes, and tells Louis to get everything he had wanted, before heading up towards the balcony, doing whatever it is that Harry Styleses do.

Lazy bastard.

He lunges for the box, popping the opening as instructed, and tearing the packaging with his teeth.

His eyes immediately drift to Harry, knowing that he'd possibly yank Louis' head from his body by not utilizing proper utensils for the job, but he was a man on a mission, and he's finally discovered his treasure, and whether Harry is livid with him for taking desperate measures is all jabber to his ears by now.

But..

Nothing was ever delivered to his ear, nothing was said, nothing was strung together, and something just felt...off..

He turns his head towards Harry, and the bloke was now minding the phone in his hand, weakly grasped, like if there had been an earthquake, his phone would be the first amongst everything to collide with the hard granite, shattering in a small dissonance.

And it's just.. strange...

His appearance had appeared normal, inventively chic (as of always), and fresh, like he's a rockstar who's just about to perform yet another repetitive single, amongst the millions of his adoring fans, and he wouldn't even have bothered if he sounded like shit, wouldn't have cared if he lost the said fans, like he was just looking for the end of it all, and it's just.. It's weird.

He had no idea if Harry was thinking about something, or if he had chosen this day to specifically not address to Louis, but whatever is going on, he didn't find the feeling all too pleasant.

So, without much of a plan, really, he hesitantly trots over to the dining table as well, with the cereal box haphazardly open, clenched between his hand, takes a seat, and simultaneously looks away, just when his bum had made contact with the chair.

If Harry had noticed his company, he hadn't shown it.

There's nothing but silence, as Louis' fingers literally pirouettes towards the packaging, and scooping his hands inside in an attempt to get himself a handful.

He is still yet to look at Harry, as he finds himself chewing a bit too enthusiastically, popping each cereal bits onto his mouth till it ran out, then scrambling with the damn plastic opening, eliciting eerie scrunches, as he curses mentally, wondering what the fuck he was doing, eating cereal from his fingertips, when he could clearly locate himself a sparkly goblet, and all that would be left, was to pour on some milk, and take a sip. Easy.

He's on his fourth handful, when he feels the box pried away from where it sat in front of him, and to the furthest corner of the table.

"Hey!" He rasps slightly, void of any kind of malice. He still can't get himself to look at Harry. "I was eating that."

Harry grunts in reply.

He heaves a sigh, when he finds that Harry had no intention of giving back his cereal box, so he gets up from his chair, scraping the wood in return, as he reaches for the box, only to find it on the other furthest end.

He clenches his fist just slightly, but made no sound, indicating his thinly-veiled annoyance, as he heads over towards the box again, reaching for it, only to find it on the spot he had previously been, seconds ago.

He almost growls, but he keeps it cool, playing the game for a while longer, cautiously taking his time getting to the box that Harry had been moving about when he goes to reach for it. His box.

He eyes Harry's hands that slid the phone inside his jeans now, his palm resting on his thighs.

He risks glancing at the curly haired bloke, and he looked absolutely bored, as if he was playing with a school of goldfishes that couldn't look the least bit intimidating, his chin resting idly at the palm of his hand.

Okay, so he might just be imagining the slight alteration. Harry's just probably at a lost at what activity to invest his time on, might've just been looking for another way to annoy Louis, which is why he's acting like this.

"Can you sto--"

But he was interrupted with the kettle whistling. Crap. Did he just forget he was heating himself some tea?

Apparently so.

With one last leer towards him, Louis heads towards his mug, snatching a tea bag with his other hand while he's at it (though how he found their exact location was a mystery to him, because he hadn't even helped in the least with unpacking the groceries), and heading over towards the kettle at the same time Harry gets up, and passing by him at a meandering haste.

He doesn't make eye contact with Louis, but he does pause long enough to murmur gravelly that he'd be at the car, and that Louis had to be there in five minutes, or else they'd be late if he didn't hurry up.

With a groan, Louis salutes his brew, as he attempts to catch up to Harry, before the bloke manages to break into his car yet again.

-

"You were supposed to turn at the other corner." Harry informs him from the back seat, scrolling through his phone. He wasn't even paying attention to the road at all, which is typical if he does say so himself.

Louis rolls his eyes, gripping the steering wheel just a little tighter.

"And since when does his highness pay attention to my driving, exactly?" He says, honking at the Toyota going for a fifteen, when the road sign had just stated their speed limit to minimally twenty, and there's nobody in front of the driver.

Harry doesn't miss a beat.

"Since the chauffeur is inept of taking directions, at the most menial of tasks."

Louis is literally grinding his teeth, as he missed another turn.

"If you think you can be more accommodating with reading a map, why can't you drive?"

At that, Harry smirks, but the dullness in his eyes is as prominent as it had been earlier, maybe more despondent, and jaded, he's not exactly too keen in finding out.

Louis regrets looking at his rearview mirror.

"If I carry on with your burden, I might as well sign a contract with my own father as well, and be my own caretaker." He states flatly.

"And why can't you?" Throws Louis.

He'd expected for Harry to at least attempt at a comeback, but to his surprise, Harry just drifts his attention to the closest window to his side, and doesn't bother replying.

Louis couldn't fumble for the knob to open the radio fast enough.

-

It was around two hours of driving that Louis has officially declared that they are lost.

He inwardly groans, starting his engine again, only to find that it wouldn't start.

His brows furrow, restarting the car all over again, and again, and still nothing.

He turns his attention towards his meter, and finds that he had ran out of gas.

Hadn't he just refilled the tank just the other day?

But then again, that was almost long hours ago.

Maybe, just maybe he should've taken Harry's advice on that turn earlier.

He reverts his attention towards the curly haired bloke in the backseat, and found that Harry was already pocketing his phone without another word, and opening the door beside him.

"Where are you going?"

But Harry doesn't even say anything, doesn't even acknowledge Louis' question, closing the door which he exited from, and pushing away long branches that lead to a large area of trees.

He hadn't realized they were _that_ hopelessly lost.

-

After he locates his phone, he dives right to a local tow truck address, and provides them (to the best of his ability) their bearings, and to leave it by the appointed location (namely in front of the gates of their flat), along with a hefty tip to his credit card for all their trouble (he's got nothing much to do with it all anyway).

He was then told that the car should be by the flat around an hour or two, and for him to have a good day, which further adds to the irony.

See, Louis had expected for something to go wrong before their trip, he just hadn't expected for it to happen so soon.

Without much choice, be quickly sets off to the opening where Harry had entered from.

-

He hadn't the slightest thought of how exactly he could get even more lost than he had previously been.

Right after he had followed Harry's footprints on fresh piles of eroded mounds of dirt, only to come to a stop with a large body of water, he came to an abrupt stop for obvious reasons.

Furrowing his brows, he looks around the area, basking on distorted reflections of marmalade and tangerine tinged trees. There are rust coloured leaves, and amber acorns that floated ashore. The sun is a pleasant shade of honey, that counters the brisk, yet pleasantly blowing temperate breeze. The air smelt of mainly dirt, but there's faint scent of honeysuckle, along with distinct floral variations that he is yet to define (and he wouldn't have thought to, not really).

He sets off for a walk, bereft of a single thought.

-

The moment Louis reaches the other side of the pond, was the the time that he takes notice of Harry.

At first he'd thought that he was some kind of yeti with his tall stature, and mocha curls, but his cobalt checkered shirt produces a splash of blue to provide him enough of a distinction to separate him from a mythical, hairy beast.

He had his back turned to Louis, and he was leaning on a large tree trunk with his arms crossed. His shoulders were slouched, and one of his leg is lazily crossed onto the other.

From a distance, the lad looked to be resting, but the slight movement of his shoulder said otherwise.

"Harry!" Louis calls out as he approaches.

Harry jumps at the sound, straightening himself up steadily, and fumbling with _something_ that Louis couldn't see, before meeting eyes with him.

"It'd be even more gratifying if one had been an axe murderer." He says simply, averting his gaze with a small sniff.

Louis surprisingly chuckles at that, shaking his head, taking his time to approach him.

"So you'd rather have someone threaten your life, than seeing little 'ole me?" He jokes. "I am _hurt_."

Harry takes a step back when Louis was about two meters away.

"Your deranged sense of humor is enough to cause a plethora of brain tumors." Harry states a matter-of-a-factly, huffing in a low tone.

Louis rolls his eyes, movement halting. He doesn't even know why he's smirking. At all. Maybe it's because he's a bit thankful that he's not exactly lost, if he manages to find Harry.

"I'll ignore the part where you jab at my tasteful jokes," he decides, noting the slight pink on the rim of Harry's eyes, and the flush of the tip of his nose. Had he been crying? No. That couldn't be right. It had to be the slight cool in the air. Probably some sort of allergies running amuck. "But in exchange, I'd like for you to find our way back to civilization, if you please."

Harry snorts, breathing a bit shakily, like he's trying to breathe at a normal pace. "Or, you could find your own way, and die of dehydration, and I would continue living, and avoid contacting the authorities of your whereabouts."

"Ouch." Louis clutches at his chest just slightly, angling his head away from looking too much into how Harry blinks too frequently than normal, virescent gaze emphasizing azure pigments in his eyes, which no doubt was the effect from his shirt, a soft bronze shade brushing along his smooth pink, wind-brushed cheekbones. "You wound me, Harry Styles!" Cries Louis. "How could you be so cruel?"

Harry's eyes seemed to capture a bit of light at that, as he rolls them, then narrowing his attention to Louis.

"All is fair in love and war, Louis Tomlinson." Was all he says, before trotting off north without a decent transition. "All is fair in love and war."

The boy really needed to work on that, Louis vaguely notes.

-

After a few hours of relentless meandering around the forest, and throwing an occasional question as to whether they were to arrive dead or alive, Harry had surprisingly eased (just a bit), and had humored him on the latter.

"If you're that concerned with knowing of your state in the end, then what fun would that be?" He voices out, casual strides less stiff, just bordering on casual. "It loses the magic of the unknowing."

Louis rolls his eyes. "Are you kidding me right now?" He says with a snort. "You're fine with not knowing whether you'd be a rotting corpse, or living your life in the end?"

"Your worm is your only emperor for diet: we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for  
maggots: your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes, but to one table:  
that's the end." Harry eventually replies.

And what?

Did he just.. Did he just quote Shakespeare?!

"What does that even mean?" Louis sputters, confused. "Are you calling me fat?"

Harry clicks his tongue in contempt.

"It means, you should shut your fat arse, and keep walking." He provides, taking a brief turn to leer menacingly at Louis, before continuing on ahead, hastening his pace, like he's trying to put a distance between the two of them as it had been moments ago.

But Louis' not having it, knowing that he'd eventually get himself even more lost (more so than he already was) deeper in the forest, forever isolated from civilization. He matches his stride with Harry's, only falling a step or two behind. Close enough.

-

Another half an hour passes, and eventually, they find a clearing.

Louis shouldn't really be as excited as he is, but he truly was. He's not exactly sure how much time had passed, or whether anyone'd be worried about their well-being (knowing that they'd missed that event that they had planned to attend in the first place), but he sincerely doubts it, not with what happened with Harry at that one time.

A shiver runs through his core, as a cold gush of the wind nips at his exposed skin.

It was then, that a thought suddenly occurs to him.

It's fall.

It's fall, and he should've brought a coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your lovely comments are always appreciated, thank you for reading!
> 
> P.S. The final (massive) quote that Harry was refering to, was a passage from Shakespeare's Hamlet. I never forgot about that part from when I read it, and because it reminded me so much of Harry's perspective in some ways, I might as well throw it in, you know? Y'all should probs read it, if you haven't!! :))
> 
> Song of the Chapter - Till Dawn (Here Comes the Sun) by The Weeknd, because it says so much about how Louis was acting (or how he will act), listen to it if you caaaan!! <333


	10. Acts of Deduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis really should just stay asleep, for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been almost a month guys, hello! So sorry for the long wait, I've been having my fair dose of fandom crisis and such, no worries. Thank you for being patient, and to any Sherlockian fans out there, you might like this chapter (and probably a lot after this one) ;) .

-

Surprisingly, Harry's mood seemed a bit lighter than usual. And that's definitely saying something, in accordance to having a mercurial man-child as a flatmate.

And to all who might be wondering as to how he could've figured that whilst remaining _in his boxers_ , should have been provided with a dead giveaway.

Now normally, he'd have awakened some time during midday, clad in nothing but his undergarment, wrapped into a fine burrito with soft sheets, shrouded in delicate rays of light peering through his windowsill, all soft-breathy, and comfortable, but not today. Nope. Today was a rather peculiar scene, amongst a myriad of many (understatement).

Why?

Because he woke up to Harry, attaching a bunch of wires to his head with some suction material.

There was a cluster of machines lying about on metallic tables, syringes (that had questionable, transparent liquids in them), and some sort sonograph (that kept on making noises whenever he eyes the sodding thing warily), and a screen that had different lobes of the brain in a variety of iridescent colours that alternated at whichever part was lit up.

It took a few moments for him to take it all in, but he does eventually, when he narrows in on Harry at the center of it all, clad in a large, pearly lab coat, a pair of black skinny jeans, and white rubber soles that covered his feet. His hair is formed into a tiny ponytail, and he looked to be in the middle of taking notes through spreadsheets, and a programme in his laptop.

He appeared to be consumed in his work, warped into some unbeknownst universe of functioning data, and measured calculations, that he hadn't bothered to take in that the patient: Louis, has roused from his beauty rejuvenation, and is paying mind to his every move.

Harry flowed around the room with elegant sophistication, carrying himself in precise strides, and effortless meandering about, that if Louis had allowed the pull of phantom sleep fairies to allow him to settle back into his comfortable position, and eventually drift off, then he'd presume that the bloke had been dancing; not one of those dodgy, endearing doe stumbles that he had noted to have been permanently associated with Harry's movements, but pliés and demi-pointes.

It's an odd assumption if he was to rationalize all of this as a whole, but that's what he'd witnessed, unravelling right there, right in front of him.

He gave it another few minutes, before he made his appearance be heard, coincidentally, just when Harry had precisely looked up from his graphs, and long equations.

"Uh, is there a reason that these things are stuck on my head?" Asked Louis, sounding almost cautious...why?

Harry blinks, eyeing him with complete boredom in his features.

"In any case you are somehow inept of recognizing the obvious, it's through those acetabulum materials that the wires remain plastered to your head."

Louis frowns, opening his mouth to retort, but Harry cuts through seamlessly, leaving a decadent trail of chocolate to appease the ears.

"But if the concept of asking the necessary question is what you're sincerely lacking--even if I had relentlessly _hurled_ the concept at your head in several occasions, then I will humor you by pretending to hear the question that one had intended to say, and responding with an answer of: I'm monitoring your nonexistent brain."

Louis could only gape.

"But why?!"

Harry blinks unseeingly, before shrugging.

"For the purpose of science, I suppose." Louis raises a challenging brow, urging the curly haired git to continue. "And to serve to my brimming curiosity." That was accompanied with a particularly bland expression as if he'd just stated those words to mull at his tongue.

Fucking masochist, this boy.

Although, surely he should milk it for all its worth, and pretend that he hadn't noticed the condescending flow to his tone. "Curiosity?" He questions, crossing his arms, unconsciously wrapping himself further into the duvet. "You're curious about my brain?"

"Yes."

"For what purpose?"

Harry rolls his eyes, twirling a pen on his hand absent-mindedly. "Brain activity." He decides, blankly regarding him. "Whether there are actual brain waves in there, or a gerbil running on a wheel."

It takes a moment for Louis' sleep-addled fuzz to clear, and vehemently yank off the suction cup wires from his head.

Even he's baffled that it has taken him this long to remove them.

"Pardon me?" He keens. "Are you calling me stupid? Or am I just having another nightmare?"

"Yes."

Then he leaves out of the room in a casual strut, curls bouncing like any hair product commercial, an annoying scent of sea breeze and apricot permeating the air, with Louis left questioning: which was it that Harry had responded to.

Either case, he is left to groan at his pillow in exhaustion.

-

After a lengthy shower, Louis is left all pruny, when he descends the spiral staircase, with a towel thrown in one shoulder, clad in a comfy graphic tee, and loose sweats, his phone held firmly on his hand, flicking through his old texts and emails.

Jamming his mobile within his trousers, Louis strides lazily towards the kitchen, locating himself the appropriate ingredients for a sandwich: bread, ham, lettuce, cheese, tomatoes, cold sausages and a splash of hot sauce.

Mauling at his sandwich, with an empty plate at hand, he seats himself properly by the dining table, almost moaning at the taste, as he vaguely notices Harry to situate himself in front of him, holding a silver platter.

Louis raises an inquisitive brow, but doesn't question it, averting his attention elsewhere before he's incriminated for things that are out of his control (well, mostly).

Harry brandishes a scalpel from his pocket, digging in to a large grey lump that sat at the tray.

Curiosity piqued, Louis relents, chancing a glance towards the said lump, and his sandwich was out of his hands before he can realize it, and falls atop his plate, remaining meticulously intact from the angle it was dropped in.

Mangled paws, unseeing glaze in the eyes, seemingly placid form, tongue sticking out.

Is that..

"You brought a raccoon to the flat?" He squeaks, backing away slightly, sporting a disgruntled wrinkle to his nose, but was surprised that he'd distanced himself a mere increment rather than abandoning the vicinity, like any sane person would've done, his meal held in protectively in one hand. "A dead, _rabid_ \--"

"Possibly rabid." Supplies Harry tersely.

"--dangerous, man-biting--"

"Semantics. Raccoons are hardly considered ravenous."

"--disease-addled--"

"Only upon contact with either the fur, molars, or urine."

"--disease _carrying_ \--" he rephrases. "--rubbish tooth-fairies?! Harry, what the fuck are you trying to _do_?"

"Research." Harry narrows his eyes at Louis.

" _Research_? _Really_?" He screeches, throwing his hands up on the air in indignation. "I thought you were already in the middle of one?"

Harry blinks, and for some reason Louis revels in the small stint of silence.

"Pardon me?"

"You heard me," points out Louis, crossing his arms, turning his attention towards a particular corner, and deemed it interesting. "I thought you were already doing one?"

"Alright." Harry affirms contentiously, and for reasons unknown to him, he already felt provoked. "But to which experiment had you been referring to that deemed worthy of recognition? Your cortex scans?" He snorts, amused, visibly rigid, but amused. "That was hardly third grade, Louis Tomlinson, do keep up."

"But it's an experiment, isn't it?" Louis prods, mouth twitching when Harry releases a faint sound from his nose, almost like a laugh, an unnerving, ghosting laugh.

That, and there's something scarily sobering in the iciness of his gaze, even if Louis hadn't been drunk in the first place.

"It's merely stimuli scan." Harry says breezily, but there's sharpness to his tone, like there's a possibility that Louis would assent him to be a liar. Though truth fully, he doesn't, not really. "Surely you've ran similar procedures and such in earlier studies?"

Louis breathes through his nose.

"By similar procedures, do you mean keeping an eye on a class pet, then yes, I dabbled." He drawls out the last word like a challenge.

Harry hums, resuming his work with a sophisticated flick of the wrist, squinting his attention towards several parts of the carcass, and making a pleasurable noise in content, beneath his googles.

Surprisingly, Louis had remained quiet, as he watches the Harry nod at certain areas, whilst he prods the limp flesh with a stirring rod held at his fingertips that did not hold the scalpel.

He was just about to consider backing away during Harry's attempt of a first incision, but was halted immediately, when his foot was on mid-air behind him, and Harry's voice carries through the very little gap between them.

"You had experience with these cadavers, I presume?"

Louis' breathing halts.

"Sorry?"

Harry rolls his eyes from his line of vision, not once coming close to acknowledging Louis, his eyes appearing a steely blue under the artificial lighting of a fluorescent bulb that was supposedly installed without Louis' knowledge atop their dining table.

"Veterinarian, yes?" Harry placed the scalpel, to make use of the conveniently placed rectangular magnifying glass, as he pokes the dead raccoons eyelid open, and chewing on his lower lip in concentration, virescent gaze soft, and almost human, filing in each corners of the whites within the poor thing's eyes at the back of his head. "Or perhaps an assistant, considering that you've brazenly accepted this occupation, no?"

Louis' mouth gapes just slightly.

"And how could you possibly know that?"

Harry releases his lower lip, swiping at it briefly with his tongue to match the touch of vermillion. He looked almost victorious, as he fed off Louis' initial shock.

The bloke throws him an exasperated 'are you always this stupid' look, but responding regardless.

"You don't seem to be repulsed by the idea of a dead animal--just worried about any infections that it might carry, you hadn't exactly thwarted off when it is within your knowledge that I will perform a dissection, and your stance at the moment--although unnoticed by you--appeared a bit attentive, like you're awaiting for me to ask of you a request in case I needed anything, so yes, a vet's assistant, any questions?"

"But I'm holding a sandwich," Louis protests with a disbelieving bob of his throat. "And I'm sure you must've looked that up in my file beforehand."

Harry asses him in concentrated scrutiny.

"And to waste my precious time in conversing myself in a stinted form of camaraderie?" snorts Harry, shaking his head, when Louis makes a face that he couldn't identify. "Jesting is never really a contributing niche to you, is it? And tapping your thighs with your free hand is _surely_ not a sign of boredom, and the need to perform an act."

"Wanting to get away from a crime scene is not an option?" Quips Louis offhandedly. Though both of them are keenly aware of the deception in his end.

Harry barks out a laugh, albeit in propriety, then tilting his head in quiet, stoic, and abysmal superiority.

"Then wouldn't you rather be interested in as to why you hadn't been able to take your eyes off of my hands for merely a second?" He sneers, tracing over Louis' fumbling steps in the accusation. "Or was that the testosterone that's got your pupils so dilated?"

Air, his lung is definitely lacking air.

"I--" Louis flushes hotly, but he refuses to let this pretentious arse win in a game that he had inadvertently involved himself in. Regardless, he continues. "That was amazing." Okay, he has definitely not intended to speak of his thoughts out loud.

Moreover, what did he mean by pupil dilation? He wasn't high, though, neither can he blame it in the testosterone.

Stupid, stupid body. Can't even listen to Louis just once.

"And you can tell that by just my movements?" He hates himself, he definitely must begin digging his grave up sooner or later. "That's simply amazing, Harry, I think I might be impressed."

"Naturally." Harry voices haughtily, smug, noise jutting, like so. "Oh, how could you have possibly been praising boring individuals, when there's the embodiment of fallen gods, that is me. A shame, really." The bloke includes not least bit of embarrassment in his tone, just genuine, narcissistic pride.

Louis rolls his eyes.

"Alright, alright." He sighs. "There's no need to rub it in my face that I complimented you, once." He adds pointedly.

Harry's eyes glint in mirth.

"Surely it wouldn't be the last."

"You are so full of yourself, aren't you?" Louis snipes, huffing. "Sounds mighty cocky, if you ask me."

"Really?" Harry asks, preparing his first incision. "Do I detect a challenge in your tone, Tomlinson?

Louis doesn't respond as he retires to his room for the rest of the evening, sandwich all but forgotten atop a coffee table on his route.

-

"And I say, listen." The voice sternly instructs, as Louis feels a soft weight on his torso as he slept, almost nonexistent, that he might be imagining it? "If the accusations are the least bit true, how is it that my presence is not shown to the public?"

"But father, you simply must understand. I am fully capable of tending to what I see fit." A murmur of sounds almost like barking dogs manages to catch Louis' hearing. "And if there are unconfirmed truths that cascade through tabloids and sleep-deprived pigeons, then those are but mere bread crumbs."

More silence.

"I know father, I am aware of that." The voice sighs wearily, the creaky footsteps ceasing. "Yes, I can recall the event to the very last flavour of jam on his toast that the pathogenic bastard had eaten, and I am not one for repeating my blunders the second time." The words were spat, as if spoken with loathing, and.. pain?

He feels a faint breeze brush at the tip of his nose, as if he's moved closer, and passed through Louis' space just briefly.

"No," the voice states firmly. "That is but the last thing I aim to achieve." The tone felt cold, and sure, like there's of little possibility that whatever it was that he was talking about can occur. "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players."

"But--yes father, good ni--"

And there's no sound at all.

Louis briefly wonders if he was dreaming all these up, but then he feels the soft press of sheets on his skin, which is familiar to a point that he felt grounded, and assured, that he stands in the borderline of wakefulness and mind projected colours and sounds behind his eyelids.

Then the weight atop his chest is lifted, and was replaced by an uncomfortable scratch at his temple.

He lets out a quiet groan, batting blindly at the feeling, only to have the itch on a corner of his lip.

Clearly awake, and groggy at the moment, Louis blinks away the foggy film on his eyes, narrowing his attention on some hideous, sooty fingertips, with black-tipped, jagged fingernails.

Baffled by its presence, he reaches out to yank at its minimal claws, finding them rather rough and manicured with dirt.

And then it hit him, as if he had an epiphany that right-hooked him to the side of the face.

He shrieks before he can get himself situated properly, fashionably losing balance when he realizes the limits of his bed (he didn't even know there was a limit to it really--a size fit for a queen), entangling himself in compromising knots with his duvet with one arm peaking out, and the other kissing his left shin. His hair was definitely in shambles, but he doesn't bother fixing it up, as he sees a familiar lanky shadow caressing his whole figure through the lighting from the small crack of opening of his door.

"What the hell are you doing at--" he fumbles for his phone at his bedside table, and squinting at the digits. "Four am in the bloody morning, touching my face?"

Harry makes an affronted noise at the back of his throat.

"I'd hate to get my fingertips get dirty." He sniffs, looking down at Louis' compact figure, studying him like a fine specimen. Which is.. He didn't know how to feel about the sudden attention. "So I appointed Charlie with tactile measures of your awakening."

"Charlie?"

Harry hums thoughtfully, which isn't doing any with Louis' growing suspicion.

"Charlie." He confirms. "I've kept a record of your meeting from dawn earlier to justify your presence, and Charlie's, during pleasantries." Odd. He didn't even know there was surveillance around the flat.

"I can't exactly see through your thick skull to know what Charlie had looked like, now can I?" Harry rolls his eyes, drifting his attention towards Louis' covers, then back to him. Louis frowns, tracking the movement, and...oh.

"Charlie's the..." Most of the air goes whoosh when he took in the skewered tail. "Charlie's th-the raccoon."

Harry makes an affirmative noise, almost smirking, half of his face smoldered in midnight hues, eyes dark, yet reticent, and aloof, a questionable replica of Harvey Dent, the other half barely lit through the opening in soft, pasty yellow, complementing his alabaster complexion.

My god.

He's feeding off my reaction to this, concludes Louis mentally.

Now how was he supposed to go back to sleep knowing that he'd been stroke by a dirty, rotted-teeth, carcass?

"Okay." He takes a breath, wiping a hand to his face, passing lightly around the velvet material of the bloke's attire, and throwing the adjoining bathroom door open without bothering to close it. "Okay."

He hears a set of footsteps brushing along the tiles slowly, as if reluctant, but attentive all the same.

"Okay?" He can hear the confusion that rumbles through Harry's acquiescent tone. "No screaming? No wicked acts of a vindictive?"

"That bother you?" Louis pinches at his nose, eyes closed, facing his reflection, and absently dabbing at his face with a wet cloth.

There was no response, but he briefs a glance to the small shrug Harry provides.

"Well, I guess your little game is over now, don't you think?"

Harry murmurs something that he couldn't quite hear.

"Huh?"

"Dull."

Louis furrows his brow, exiting the bathroom.

"Say that again?"

"Boring, despondent, bland." Harry surmises, shaking his head in annoyance, glaring at Louis in vehement accusation. "Do keep up, Mr. Tomlinson, I sure do hope that you'd at least know of thirty percent of what I'd just stated."

So they're back to formalities now.

Just when he was getting used to the sharp sting of Louis Tomlinson.

Why did he feel as if he'd just been accused of murder?

A martyr is what he is.

"Why?" Questions Louis, attempting to sound casual. "Because I simply wouldn't do as what you'd expected?" Frustration tinges the edge of his voice, why.. exactly? "That I'm not some lap dog that will wouldn't respond to your calls? That wouldn't ask how high, when you tell me to jump?" His face screws up a bit. He settles to absently chewing on his lower lip. Wasn't that what you have expected of me? Dies as soon as it was conjured.

Harry's face scrunches, his gaze traveling all over Louis' face, and groaning in disgust.

"Oh, don't go and pull your horrendous acting again, it's getting quite tiresome."

Instantly, he was gorged in hot flames.

"Why are you here?"

Harry traces his fingers idly at the wooden frame at the foot of the bed, humming a gentle tune as he does so.

"Harry," he tries to state as steady as he could. "Why.are.you.in.this.room? At four am in the blistering morning, and not in your bedroom, when you should be sleeping?"

Harry pauses his meandering about, finally meeting Louis' gaze in faint appraisal that resembled a patronizing look.

"Ah," sighs the man-boy, lashes trembling slightly, a waft of breeze, fanning over his cheekbones. "Now you've certainly caught on, haven't you, Louis Tomlinson."

Louis blinks in surprise.

"Pardon me?"

"You're not completely as inadequate as the rest of the world." Harry says, as he throws on a dark trench coat, ruffling his long curls slightly, heading towards the door that connected to the hallway, and winding down the stairs. "Do call up a cab, will you."

"Thank you..." He slowly drawls, like a question. "Why?"

Harry pauses mid-step, and eyeing Louis briefly, smirking.

"Sustenance." And he disappears out of Louis' line of vision.

-

When the cabbie arrives at the gates (though he still doesn't get as to why he'd been able to obtain a cab service at this late of night), Louis' just about given up with his outfit, and settled for a comfy jumper his nan had knitted him for Christmas, and loose joggers, acquainted by his (sparkly) special socks, and his only pair of Navy Roshe Runs from Adidas that he'd often used for running.

He couldn't really locate a proper Van for use so he just shoved the closest thing on his feet, bereft of rationalities.

"Where exactly are we heading?" Louis asks, opening the cab door, for a seat. "Sustenance is not exactly succinct."

Harry just raises a brow, already seated.

"Must be pleasant."

Louis buckles himself in, then closes the door on his side.

"What is?"

Harry averts his gaze, but he responds nonetheless,

"Your brain: terribly empty, barely stocked with substantial information." He lists distastefully, like swallowing down acrid-scented bile. "Rainbows, unicorns, pot-of-gold, the works."

Louis had no idea how to respond to that.

-

"So, where to, boys?" The cabbie asks, tapping his hands idly on the steering wheel, staring through the rear-view.

Louis turns to Harry, who looked lost in thought that he's sure that he couldn't coax a viable answer from the bloke, even if he tried.

He chews on his lower lip, debating his only option at this time of night, and settling for an address, mirroring Harry, as he faces his reflection.

-

Truthfully, he'd have expected Harry to say something along the way, like a voice of concern, criticism about the place that they may be heading to, or probably something obvious as the duration of the ride at night time.

He remained silent all throughout the trip, lips pursed, eyes occasionally tracing along the path with clear indifference.

Not once had he acknowledged Louis, nor has he initiated decorum niceties of any form (that he had often rationalized in collective portions). Not that he had expected that, of course.

The cabbie driver seemed nice enough, even brought on small talk to past the time, politely questioning their whereabouts, as to why they're going out before the crack of dawn instead of getting some good nights rest.

"We're growing boys, sir, we're meant to be hungry." Louis had chuckled in reply.

"Hey, no probing here, mate." The cabbie states, smiling on the rear-view, his attention flicking briefly towards Harry's hunched figure. "Is your friend alright?" He asks, turning towards a curb. "Not sick, is he?"

Louis briefly scans Harry in peripherals, as the lad's bathed in a faint blue colour, outlining his soft curls, and defining the jut of his chin in lavender accents.

"Um, I don't think so?" He chews on a corner of his nail. "Not the sociable type, you know?" Though he doubts he really know what he's talking about.

Cabbie chuckles, "Oh, I know the type. Though he does look familia--"

Harry yanks his door open, throwing a few too many bills on the man's direction, surprising Louis by awaiting at a corner beneath a flickering lamp post. His expression stoic, and unreadable.

"Thank you, for the, erm, ride." He murmurs distractedly, joining Harry, and standing by him. "You could've at least have been nicer to the man." He scolds. "He was just trying to be nice, you know?"

Harry turns his attention elsewhere, snorting a small puff of smoke through his nose.

"I highly deem it to be appropriate."

"And why not?" Louis cocks his hip to the side. "He was at least _trying_ to make some conversation, despite such early timing, unlike _someone_ who doesn't even respond to people's questions unless they're somewhat worthy of attention."

"So, where's this supposed plebeian eatery that you'd thought so highly of?"

Clearly he was done speaking about the matter with the deliberate change in the topic.

"Excuse me? Can you at least tell me what you mean by Plebeian? Is that a type of food? Because if by plebeian, you mean Chinese, then it's just around that corner." He instructs, pointing towards his right, smirking a little when Harry rolls his eyes, leading the way.

-

They arrive at a small, quaint, traditional Chinese Grill.

There are about eight quadrants of freshly polished (or rather as fresh as it could be with such a well-hidden establishment) grills with six individual bamboo kneeling mats surrounding the each station. There's roughly around five workers that provided with the catering, namely short, small nose, welcoming employees--or rather, people who are surprisingly shorter than he was. Don't judge. Only very rarely do these opportunities arise.

"Welcome!" One hollers, hobbling over to the two, with a purple, ornamented notepad, and a black pen at hand. "How many?"

Unsurprisingly, Harry's brow furrow, just a tad irritated by the vague question.

"How many cows? How many teapots? What could you possibly--"

"TWO!" Louis chimes in, leering at Harry with his mind. This boy can _not_ be seriously doing this right now. "Just t-two please." To which Harry seethes from behind him, seating himself cross-legged at an empty station.

The lady looked slightly baffled, murmuring something Louis couldn't quite construct, before shooing off back to the double doors that he's 90% sure was the kitchen.

Reluctantly, he seats himself at the opposite side of Harry, who had already began picking at the menu critically.

"Harry, what the hell was that?" He huffs behind laminated writing. "You know she's not exactly properly practiced in your whole eloquence lingo."

"Neither is her foreigner boyfriend." Says Harry, flipping a page.

"Sorry?"

"I abhor repetition, Tomlinson, even from yours truly."

"But how would you know that she had a foreigner for a boyfriend?"

Harry replies instantly, lightning fast gaze trapping Louis from where he knelt, almost like he was just given a favourite toy to play with.

"Her watch."

Louis tilts his head. Harry rolls his eyes, but continues regardless.

"She has wears a Dolce and Gabanna unisex watch. Terribly plain, slightly used, but expensive nonetheless, so gift it is--maybe purchased from eBay, but was polished to appear as if newly bought. Her practiced posture, and thick accent suggests that she came here during her mid-thirties, probably awaiting a new start in life from her old country, probably in search of a mate, hence why she's a little bit better dressed than the rest of the women here, but not too dressy that she's looking for anybody, which suggests that she's in a serious, committed relationship, but not to the point of marital status, hence the lack of a ring on her left ring finger, bare and unpolluted by a years-long marriage. She also wears light make-up, which could mean that she's trying to lure more in, just in case there's a better offer presented, or she's got a date she's excited for. Plus, there's a slightest bit of English twang in every other word of her sentences, which could only be influenced by somebody who she is exposed to, constantly, but more intimate than her brother, as she didn't look the least bit ashamed that she spoke in alternating phonetics in her sentences."

It was only a little over a month that he'd discovered that Harry had a knack of making small deductions to occupy his day.

Whether it was identifying whoever had been hooking up with whom, or who had recently started dating again, Harry had to only dart his eyes at a thunderous haste for him to come up with a conclusion, before interacting (or not) with anybody that ever dares approach him, anybody whom he chooses to exchange a brief word with, before choosing yet another thing (usually a fascinating object: weird trinkets, unusual flowers of a distinct trait, you name it), or another individual (unlikely) of which he hadn't gotten a familiar read to, and needed to re-asses, before reaching to some sort of indifference that one can't help but intently focus all your attention to him, as if he's brittle parchment, and that he could disappear at any second.

It's very rare that he'd ever get a deduction done on Louis, but it was done through long awaited days, before Harry even tries to read him, and every experience is just stinted lapses in time, like being fond of reading late nights, lacking in sleep, or wanting something else for breakfast, other than his regular of ham-and-egg on toast, but it's very rare, so Louis is always taken back whenever he opens his mouth, and pointing out something to Louis, that he himself hadn't realized he'd done otherwise.

Sometimes, it sort of leads him to believe that rarely does he ever hold Harry's interest, and that there's a slight pinch to his gut, knowing even if they've known of each other's existence for a little over a month, he knew so much about Harry from the media, but so very little with what goes on in his private life, and Harry will do the same.

He couldn't even consider himself holding just as much interest than what was expected (a fib), but it's fine... It's all just fine.

At least Harry had managed to loosen up in increments, even manages to leave his things in Louis' car when they come back to the flat, late and filed away from exhaustion that they could just literally drop down on their knees, and just sleep on the ground or something, and they'd be out like the light till the next morning (well, Louis will be, and Harry will probably already have himself a cuppa by the handle, and nibbling on a single piece of toast by the time that Louis ever manages to rouse himself from a sleep-induced coma around lunch time), and they're off to yet another party that Harry had already agreed to without Louis' approval, and that was okay, it was his job after all.

One day, Louis risks a question, inquiring Harry of whether he'd ever make use of his gracious intellect for some sort of crime fighting, like Sherlock Holmes in the programme he'd often see Harry occasionally stifling through. In some days, it's an episode he had watched the day before, sometimes it's a new one, there's no repetition, he just appeared to marvel at each scene like he couldn't get much of it in one sitting, and just had to dissect the episode in different days to pull out new facts about what he'd just watched.

To his surprise, Harry'd looked enlightened (a little bit), but he waves away the comment within seconds, _'because Louis--_ ' And that was something new as well: Harry makes an effort to use Louis' name as minimally as possible (knowing that irritates him at times with extended sentences because of it), but in off days (or rare times when he'd been too lazy to speak in his usual intellectual rambles), he does manage to slip up, and regard him on accident, and fail to acknowledge that he'd even done it, so at least he knew he was (to an extent) getting somewhere. ' _\--deductions are spotty, and the least bit of exposure to rough waters from an unofficial personnel can corrupt the system._ ' Then commencing his activity for the day. His posture seemed a smidge, less stiff, and he's a bit more tolerable than usual.

"Think I can flirt with her for some extra lucky fortune cookies?" He chuckles, taking a sip of some customary green tea that's been prepared minutes after they've placed in an order.

"Hardly doubt she'd be one to prey on cubs." Supplies Harry slowly. "Seems like the type to aim for real men with an surplus chest hair, and rugged beards."

Louis sputters mid-sip.

"Excuse me, how'd you deduce that, then?"

"Her face."

Louis drums out a beat on his thigh with an index finger.

"There are beard burns on the side of her face, and she'd been eyeing that fellow's torso almost too frequently to be a coincidence."

Louis was laughing openly now, laughing when the food was placed in front of them, laughing when Harry uses chopsticks to elegantly place large shrimp on the grill to cook, and laughing when Harry had told him to stop.

"But it's funny! You can't just expect me not laugh after you said just that."

Harry looked confused.

"But that's not even a form of constructive humour, merely an observation."

Louis rolls his eyes, appeasing Harry with a half-smirk.

"Well, it's funny, and you're going to have to accept that, and be okay with it."

And so, their tiny truce had dwindled on throughout their whole meal. They exchanged a few words, but very little, that it can't even be referred to as a healthy conversation, but it was good, as was the food.

The time passed a bit too fast within Louis' liking (even if the majority of that is attempting one-sided pleasantries on his behalf), and it's already 6 am, and they're bloody exhausted.

After both had paid their equal parts on the bill, Louis calls in yet another cab, and was told that they are to be picked up within ten minutes.

Satisfied, the pair stopped by a café to pick up some freshly baked pastries, when a snap of the camera flickers from behind them.

Louis shudders slightly in surprise, and Harry freezes on the spot, his back to them.

They stayed that way, till their cab arrives in time, with Harry bolting off with livid clicks of his boots, alone, order all but forgotten near the register where he had left it.

Louis frowns, but doesn't speak a word, following suit, with two, maybe three men with cameramen barking out questions, or declaring preposterous assumptions at his wake.

Shaking his head, he opens the door to his seat, and immediately buckling himself in.

It doesn't take one of Harry's deductions to realize that whatever has happened back there was to be kept under wraps.

But a part of him secretly hoped that the paparazzi's appearance hadn't completely ruined the whatever it was that they were, however fucked up, and unconventional it may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update should come around at almost the same pace as this one had took. Apologies, can't exactly rush the writing process, but thank you for staying to read this self-indlgent fic of mine!


	11. Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis and Harry go to a funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> So sorry that it took so long. Frankly, I had been aiming to get it done somewhere between now and May 1st, but then it needed to air out a bit to get me a time to consider how I should handle each situation and such. Also, as I have been working on this un-beta'd, it took another chunk of time to polish off some loose ends. Hopefully I'd successfully done just that, but just in case, I would be reading over the whole piece and make some edits.
> 
> Warning: More Sherlock references, because I couldn't resist (sorry).

-

 

" _Don't be preposterous_ ," Harry sneers, crossing his arms, bottom lip jutting out. " _Sulking is not a form of petulance. I simply do not wish to speak to you at the moment._ "

 

Decidedly (or at least in Louis' perspective), Harry's sulking.

 

And it's not one of those 'I'm-simply-going-to-ignore-your-existence' sulk, nor is it the 'I-shall-not-remain-in-the-same-radius-as-your-sorry-arse' type, no. It's the 'I'm-definitely-ignoring-your-existence-but-I'll-attempt-to-act-civil-to-prove-my-maturity' sort of days.

 

Now naturally, that wouldn't have proven to be too much of a hindrance to Louis' itinerary, however, they were running in a rather tight schedule (or so to speak) that left little to no blunders from point A to point B, which is precisely how the prelude of the day had proven to be less than favourable when it came to tying loose ends in the equation.

 

In that very morning, Harry had been on a strop, refusing to acknowledge that his vintage wicker shirt had indeed been imported from Peru, rather than Ibiza; all within the intricacies of the unique stitching style, lacing pattern, and horrid selection of brightly lit colours that Louis had personally despised. Not that colour selections had a contributing factor for his verdict, but anything other than black could potentially ruin him (well, depending on the style had also played a role, though he hadn't been fond of much, other than his--slight--obsession with superheroes, either that or anything cool would've passed with flying colours).

 

In the duration of his stay, he had been well-versed in Harry's rather... unique (surprisingly tolerable) behaviour to be able to not only handle his myriad of conflicting, oxymoronic countenance, and yet embodying opaque, and stoic, as opposed to easily irritable, and incredibly handsome (though that last bit had always been applicable regardless of circumstance).

 

He had a cross to bear, knowing that the act is as believable to Harry, as faking sick with half-cooked oatmeal in the toilet bowl, amongst feigned sputters, wet hacks, and dampened forehead. Only very rarely does he manage to conceal the facade, but he reckons Harry tends to hold more pretenses than truths behind his carefully strung words (an even stead, then?). An evidence that he had been least--more or less--have been on par with him (for the time being).

 

Astonishingly enough, he's indulged when the latter is in the right mood.

 

Indulgent be damned, though, he supposes. He hadn't been a very lucky man.

 

He doesn't notice it right away, knowing that simply enforcing common propriety to Harry had not been one of his many acquired gusto, but one day he finds one of his jumpers to be snipped rather harshly, with tattered, and battered material floating around it, reflected by the remnants of morning that mirrored through his windows, amongst the soft clusters of dust motes that gathered around the chaise lounge, atop a cherry wood table, with a knife that irreparably bound it there with its ugly, faded orangeish-coloured glory.

 

He couldn't quite place where he even managed to get the offending article of clothing in the first place. However, the tableau itself had looked like art. He'd be lying if he doesn't nick a picture of it with his phone and made use of the image as a lock screen. 

 

He couldn't necessarily blame the lad for doing him some justice.

 

' _Do pass me your sugar pot._ '

 

Louis felt a ghost of a touch at his shoulder, as though Harry had actually initiated a contact (who in fact had sat himself at the opposite seat, but a few tables forward like the sumptuous celebrity he was), through his text.

 

' _Excuse you, everybody gets the same amount. How could you possibly have run out when we've just boarded the train?_ '

 

Also.

 

' _Saying please from time to time is not actually a worn out novelty, just saying._ '

 

' _Will attributing to social niceties increase their work sufficiency?_ '

 

' _Not exactly, but--_ '

 

His texting halts the moment Harry sends out yet another text before he had the chance to write a proper response. The insufferable git.

 

' _Then I have, and will resume with ruling my space, as I had previously done so._ '

 

' _How did you know I was going to say no? I could've just said yes to that, and say that they'll ingest energy drinks just to cater to your needs._ '

 

' _A balance of probability, dear Tomlinson._ '

 

Louis raises a brow at the response, eyeing the bloke from across the train to see the small, but ever present quirk of the lip. Had he squinted hard enough, it wouldn't take a blind man to see amusement behind the facade, as if he'd done something clever.

 

' _You always find a way to have the last word, don't you?_ '

 

' _It's a cross I have to bear._ '  He sighs, albeit smugly on his phone.

 

Louis rolls his eyes, biting back the range of insults he had prepared the last time Harry had dragged him over to Baker Street at early hours in Camden, just to mull over the fact that the fourth season of his favourite programme on the Telly will be premiering some time early 2016, or sometimes just to possibly catch sight of his favourite actors in the show: Burrito Cucumberbatch and Martini Fargo or something along the context (not that he'd bother to remember something like that. Actor recognition had not really been his niche, even as a child. Though he does find himself deviating more to real music like maybe Katy Perry, and Kanye, rather than the drivel that littered most of the radio station these days).

 

He'd have been terribly endeared, but the fact that Harry had splashed water on his face that morning to effectively bring him back to reality nullified the feeling altogether. Well, most of it anyway.

 

' _For pete's sake Harry. Jst bloody ask one of the train hostesses with uniforms for more sugar._ '

 

' _I apologize, but I couldn't quite articulate your rubbish spelling. Do try again. I'm sure you'd been well-versed with proper schooling in the least?_ '

 

' _Harry. You know what I bloody said. Stop being difficult._ ' He had the slight urge to punctuate ‘wanker’ at the end.

 

' _My actions is in propriety. I'd presume that you--of all people--had been exposed to a gist of my methods, along with the unhealthy calling of your obsession with me._ '

 

' _Obsessed? In what world would you assume that I'd remotely dedicate my life to obsess about your well being?_ '

 

The reply came within seconds.

 

' _I'd do another once-over in your previous response, and come to a conclusion of your own. You know? Just to save myself the trouble of having to answer an arduous question that should've been obvious to a days old infant._ '

 

Louis' got to admit. He did walk right into that one. Quite literally.

 

' _Point made. Just nick it off the couple behind you. They're not even drinking anything._ '

 

' _That is if they've not pocketed them already._ '

 

' _How would you--_ ' He pauses, studying the couple, as their gazes met each other lovingly. However, if he'd chanced long enough, it's quite obvious that an arbitrary of condiments have gone missing from their table.

 

' _How did you know that they're snatching them? If you hadn't pointed it out, I wouldn't have known where to look._ '

 

' _But I haven't provided with specific instructions to analyze them. I merely hinted that the sugar had not been there, and that there'd be no use to wasting my efforts to cater to such aimless pursuits._ '

 

' _Okay. So you're basically saying that you knew they snatch garnishes. How?_ '

 

' _Their luggages._ '

 

Louis discreetly squints, but no avail, cannot locate a single luggage.

 

' _They don't have luggages, though._ '

 

' _And...?_ '

 

' _Why would you mention their luggages if they have no--_ '

 

He rethinks his text, shaking his head with a sigh.

 

' _So you're saying that they snuck in, then? They could've just been traveling light? Or, they've got it shipped there._ '

 

' _Then why had their outfits been worn out? Can't say that they're on a tight budget, because it would've taken a considerable amount of money to board this train. There could've been a possibility that they would've gotten their luggages shipped, but if they were on an aforementioned, then it would've costed more to have that job done. Their scent suggests stale, cheap cologne, probably from a pound store, which indicates a lack of income, that and there's a tear at the woman's skirt from low quality fabric. Had she had gone in the proper way, then there wouldn't have been any premise of damage articles of clothing. I believe that's enough to go on then, don't you think? So far so obvious._ '

 

' _Then why didn't you just say so?_ '

 

' _I believe it's rudimentary, Louis Tomlinson. Though the subtle glances they throw around the perimeter suggests that they're attempting to blend in at the moment. Wouldn't want to ruin their fun, now could I?_ '

 

' _Fantastic._ ' He finds himself typing begrudgingly before he could stop himself.

 

' _Twenty seven._ '

 

' _Sorry?_ '

 

' _A while ago, you have wagered that the first time you had complimented me had met its last. Fantastic had been the twenty-seventh compliment you have bestowed upon my genius. Very limited vocabulary though, the repetition is reiterated quite frequently, I'm afraid. When can I cash in my winnings?_ '

 

' _A bet? What bet? I've never agreed to anything._ '

 

' _You haven't, but why else would you shed lighting to the prospect? I am aware of my brilliance, and presenting me with yet another challenge to feed off of is icing to a cake._ '

 

' _How modest, of you._ '

 

' _I do very little else. Falsified images of oneself is either a sign of self-pity, or lack of confidence. I find myself incapable of falsifying facts._ '

 

' _You know, for someone who's really smart, you can be a bit slow at times._ '

 

When he doesn't get a reply, he didn't have to look over to notice the pout that taints the lad's lips.

 

 

-

 

 

His phone buzzes in what had appeared to be the twentieth attempt to gaining a fraction of his attention, till--amongst a conflicting amount that thought otherwise--his fingers had preemptively been cooperative, acting on his intention of silencing his phone.

 

They had just about another hour or two before they were to arrive at their destination, and Louis resorted to thumbing on the wires of his headphones, pointedly burning Harry with a glare, before catching up with a movie online that he'd been anticipating for a whole month (but mostly to avoid any interaction for the rest of the trip).

 

It hadn't even been two minutes throughout the whole film before he was approached by a train hostess, informing him of precautionary methods that came with boarding the train, and the very act of shutting down his laptop, and tucking it away where it could be stored safely, and efficiently would be appreciated. 

 

Louis purses his lips, acquiescent, before yielding to the request.

 

He had a nagging suspicion that it was Harry's attempt of indirectly gaining his attention (knowing well enough that a cockpit mostly accredits air craft, and boats), though he'd rather not pursue the theory further, knowing that the man himself would never plead guilty to the accusation.

 

He discovers that his own brain is in much need of rest anyway, which is precisely why he dozes off not a second later.

 

 

-

 

 

"Surely if you hadn't been obtuse in hinting more flesh, then I wouldn't have had the urge to spill my tea, now would I?" Harry's voice resonates closely towards Louis' front, silver wear bristles curtly onto fine china. Strange. Louis had been sure that distancing themselves from the other had been Harry's quest ever since they boarded. "So I demand that you'd bring about a larger portion of these horrid sandwiches, and a refresh of everything in this table--free of charge, unless you'd like me to have a word with your superiors."

 

"R-Right away s-sir." Another, much more feminine voice squeaks out, before a mess of footsteps disappear to what Louis had guessed to be employee quarters.

 

"Always the friendly gent, are we?" Louis yawns, stretching his his arms above his head to gain a satisfactory crack, and repeating the action in the other arm. "What is it about this time? Forgot to give you an extra napkin? They endeavor to fluff your pillow the right way?"

 

Harry takes his time on sipping his tea, regarding the splashes of blue and greens that painted the scene through their windows.

 

"Have you been to a funeral, Louis?" His voice sounded oddly flat, tarred in thick molasses.

 

"Sorry?" But then he remembers that this _is_ Harry he's talking to, so he takes the effort to sound nonchalant, when he clearly is barraged with inquiries as to what had occurred to bring up the subject. "I mean, I had, when my nan passed away two years ago, why?"

 

Louis sees a slight hitch of the shoulder, but stance shifting something more stiff, more formal, as if he was trying to get into character.

 

"And how had it been? Unpleasant, I presume?" Harry's solely focused on analyzing every inch of the mountain they're passing by on. "How does one react after such experience? Forlorn? Morose? Sullen?"

 

Louis chews on a corner of his lip.

 

"I guess all three? I mean, if you're really close to the person, then you can't exactly function to your fullest, knowing that you won't see, or speak to them again."

 

Harry blankly flickers his attention to a crease at Louis' shirt, before his eyes. And goddamn. Harry's direct speculation physically hurts with the weight of the conversation slowly gaining semblance to stacking brick by brick on a scale.

 

"And I suppose things are supposed to get better soon enough? That one will be liberated from its confinements once a specific amount of time had passed?" The tone still doesn't indicate much, but Louis can tell that Harry needed an answer from the way that he'd been idly tapping the heel of his boot underneath.

 

He finds himself shrugging.

 

"You can never really get over someone dying." He supposes, drumming a hand at his thigh. "People say that it gets easier, that you'll be able to move on and resume your life soon enough, but it never really happens you know?"

 

Harry's back to looking out the window, though the minuscule inclining of his head towards Louis' direction had been indication enough to keep talking.

 

"Yeah, life goes on, but they're still gone, and you have no way to get all time that you had with them back. You'll still hurt, you'll still feel like shit, but what action you take to choose will determine as to how you'll make use of that time, you know?"

 

"Is that how you felt, then?" Harry sniffs, sloshing his tea slightly. "Or rather, how you're feeling now?"

 

He feels a slight tug at the corner of his lip.

 

"Yeah." He takes a deep breath, shifting on his seat. "Yeah, but I'm here, aren't I?"

 

A ghost of a frown overtakes Harry's lips.

 

"Unfortunately." He mutters, to which Louis responds with an indignant 'hey', accompanied by a half-hearted scowl, thanking the lad who refreshed their table with more sandwiches, condiments, and... was that a scone? "As predicted." He hums, nibbling at a corner of a tea cake, smoldered in obscenely large dollops of Nutella.

 

"Hmm?" Louis looks up from taking a bite of his bacon sandwich.

 

"The previous hostess, she hadn't come back. How boring."

 

"To be fair, you can't actually expect her to come back after your little episode back there."

 

"She attempted in seducing me with her poisonous claws and melon-sized cleavage, how would you have suggested I'd reacted?" Harry challenges, refilling his dainty teacup, pinky up. "Flirt back? Flutter my eyelash like women do if they're interested? Act playful? I am amenable to suggestion, sir."

 

Louis rolls his eye, sipping at his coffee. "Any of those, actually." He considers. "Or at least be nice about turning them down. And if luck's on your side, she'd actually consider blowing you at our next pit stop."

 

Harry's brow furrow considerably. "Although I appreciate the sentiment of thoroughly obliterating somebody's vocal chords, I doubt it'd do a portion of this train justice to be hindered with poor quality help. God knows we've had enough of that already." His tone felt a bit thawed, as he lashes out at Louis like he normally does. He didn't mean to feel a bit warmed by the fact. "Also, I'm sure the offer is present whether I took to her harshly, or not." His nose wrinkle, taking a whiff of an offending odour he happened to pick up on. "She literally exudes desperation, therefore she'd bite, even for minor defects."

 

"Think she'd be desperate enough to give shagging a go?" Louis winks when the hostess makes eye contact. She blushes coyly, pursing a corner of her cherry red lips."Not that I'm attracted to the female kind, but with a few hours to spare..."

 

"Oh, for gods sakes." Harry pinches at the bridge of his nose. "I'd pressumed that one would have adequate taste in another being through your prolonged exposure to yours truly, but to make such a blunder of 'free service' is simply appalling."

 

Louis makes a noise of what sounded like mild offense.

 

"Hey, it was just a suggestion. Not like I was going to follow through, anyway." He mutters the last part under his breath. "When are you going to learn how to take a joke?"

 

Harry doesn't miss a beat.

 

"Simple." He says. "When you've been properly educated in the construction of one."

 

Louis huffs, avoiding Harry's smug grin, ignoring the urge to smolder the boy's face in three different flavours of jam.

 

 

-

 

 

Harry meanders back to his seat opposite to Louis', lips quirked primly as though he's done a particularly naughty, and had refused to admit it.

 

And it shouldn't be as disconcerting as his previous attempts of concealing mischief, expect that it totally was, knowing that it came along with Harry's voyeuristic tendencies--amongst other things--and a train full of innocent civilians who are primitive towards the bloke's capricious habits of wrecking havoc to sooth to his boredom. It was either that, or a packet of pre-wrapped marijuana. It was an obvious choice, really.

 

 

 

"Should I even ask?" Louis flicks the crumbs that scattered on his jeans. Silly little buggers. "Or you'll tell me regardless?"

 

Harry's expression morphed into that of an angels; the curls contributing harshly to the illusion.

 

"To what gratification will it grant, when one is deprived of all his instruments? Nothing but utter contempt, I assure you, sir."

 

"But..?" Louis prods, crossing his arms sternly.

 

"I beg your pardon?" He daintily sips at his chamomile, lips flushed a darker shade, eyes painted a challenging chrome.

 

"You were going to add something in, tell me."

 

Harry hums at the rim.

 

"From such hostility, it's a wonder how you've still retained your job up to this duration." He sniffs, smirking. "Incriminating one for baring very little evidence towards an unknown act that I may or may have not committed. Such a shame. Truly."

 

Louis feels a pang at that, unfolding his arms, coordinating them to hang at his sides.

 

"Alright." He sighs, wiping a hand at his face. "I didn't mean for it to sound like you did something, I just wonder sometimes." Because it's so hard to keep up with you, even after knowing you for five months. "Must be because I hadn't been getting much sleep, huh?" He supplies quietly.

 

"Sleep deprivation?" Inquires Harry, propping his chin on the palm of his hand, pinky finger stroking at his lip. Unfair, that. "There's very little evidence to indicate a viable argument, sir, knowing that your behaviour is irritable, even with very little to go on."

 

"Oh, shove off, will you? It's not like I smother you with your behavioral issues, now do I?"

 

"Behavioral issues, you say?" Harry sniffs, narrowing his eyes slightly, uncomprehending of the subject presented. "And what part of my attitude had you been particularly miffed by?" He presents it like a wail of challenge was brought forth, along with an alluring 'do tell' cajole. 

 

Louis looks away, no doubt aware of the under currency of static that rolled off the bloke in silent, yet volatile waves. He hadn't meant to bring the topic to light, nor make use of it a sort of ammunition to prove superiority. If anything, he was just as much of a profligate benefactor to the chatter, as Harry had.

 

"You're annoying for one." He treads lightly, just with a side dish of humor, because he couldn't resist. Harry wrinkles his nose in recognition (surprisingly). "Can never truly keep you in one spot for too long, or else you'd make the rest of the inhabitants suffer from your demise."

 

"Oh, please." Harry snipes, just a touch affronted. "How long will you endeavor to wipe away the memory? It wasn't as if I'd done a particularly heinous crime to be brought to court."

 

" _You_ weren't brought to court, but _I_ was, mind you." Louis lucidly recalls with a shiver. "Almost fucking went to jail for leaving you alone with a Bunsen burner. My god, it's a good thing that they didn't have much dirt on the both of us to press charges."

 

"That, and father, as neglectful he had been, wouldn't risk his heir to touch even a hair of police records. It would sully his reputation, and therefore abandon his institution to macerate, now wouldn't that be fun."

 

Then the mood smoothed out into a flat line when the looming presence of the giant 'F' was brought up. It had not been a situation, where Louis had been unaware of the bloke's situation, but the longer he'd stayed with Harry, the more he'd been repulsed by the insufferable git that he'd been acquiescently dictated as his employer.

 

And though Harry had simply brushed away the topic of not having to attend court for his own trial, what he had lacked had been well compensated. Even if he hadn't been thoroughly burnt by the fire already, that hadn't mean that he hadn't developed an ulcer in the process, no, he had hell as collateral.

 

Apart from having discovered of Harry's addiction to a number of narcotics, Des had been thorough, when it came to how the public had perceived his assets - Harry included - and having knowledge of his son's pressure points, Des had been a dictator to the knowledge with having means to make use of them, when it served him best.

 

At the time, Harry had been forced to anonymity when it came in the presence of his dealers, along with any risqué of triggering his inhibitions, if not, he'd had his blood levels checked by Louis every couple of hours during that time, and if any deficiency had resulted, then Harry'd be forced rehabilitation for a measured amount of time, till he could get himself in check.

 

It had been a rough couple of weeks, with Harry having to snap at him for ever having to follow through his father's orders by constantly having his door open in case had he tried to pull anything, and for his existence in general. However, when his withdrawal had somewhat subsided (at an extent) to allow him back within the public eye (though not exactly centralized either, as he had been in the past), he was back to the patronizing git that Louis had been well acquainted with.

 

He had been reluctant (at first) to be in Harry's company, seeing as he had been scorned by the lad at the majority of his stay, but Harry had not exactly disapproved of his attendance during the compromise, so he reckons that not much had been salvaged, but at least he can play a role of a slightly-manic acquaintance to suit to Harry's favor.

 

Sentiment--as Louis had been told-- had never been a factor to Harry's philosophy, and that, apart from prevaricating from the construction of any form of camaraderie, he'd rather invest his time to a more resourceful way to stimulate his intellect (and that's to occupy his head with viable experiments as he saw fit).

 

Not that he'd found Louis' presence a hindrance (or at least not as much to emphasize at a daily basis). Harry hadn't exactly voiced out objections for his prolonged stay (and that in itself had been an accomplishment), and knowing the bloke, he wouldn't have acted in any way to please another being than himself, so Louis--to an extent--had taken a minor position to stand alongside him, and that should be enough, at least for the time being.

 

"Fire! Someone get an extinguisher!" A voice shrieks manically from behind them.

 

Snapping back to his equilibrium, Louis tilts his head at the source of the noise, just as Harry had taken a final sip to his cuppa, and shrugging on a coat, that had left Louis scrambling to follow - along with their carry-on luggages - to their appointed destination.

 

He trails after Harry, watching the bloke trip on flat surface for about a second, only to make use of the foot of the table that couple they had been speculating earlier, and briefly sway to come into contact with the man's shoulder, along with a flutter of material to be extracted from Harry's pockets, to the man's lap. 

 

Harry immediately brushes off the contact as if it never happened, scurrying his pace that left Louis to hastening his strides the best he could with his gazelle legs.

 

They were left gasping at the exit, as they attempt to locate a cab. 

 

They (surprisingly) arrive at a funeral that very day, Louis never really finds out who it was for, but when they were on their way back, he finds himself hovering closely towards Harry's orbit like a magnet, coming onto contact with him, even if they were a stinted, that he could perhaps imply his condolences, and that he was there if Harry had needed him.

 

Harry lacked his usual bravado, left him slump, and pliable, as if energy had left him. To Louis' surprise he does not protest to being lead by the arm towards the waiting terminal for a cab.

 

Louis had expected silence, he had expected to be ignored, but what he hadn't anticipated was Harry to break the ever-growing lack of words, much less allow him to be informed on whose funeral they had attended.

 

"She was just eighteen when she had me.." He had began in a jovial tone, like his previous preceding had been catered by a mere act from a play, though half-hearted at best.

 

He wasn't sure of what to think of that.

 

Louis had made it his mission to plaster himself to Harry's side (or as close Harry'll let him) till they fall asleep by the furnace at the presence of their flat in accommodating silence. 

 

Not that they lack conviction, or formal conversation, but the understanding was there, as plain as day, and Louis would've been a complete arsehole to leave him to wistfully reminisce all on his own, as Harry had attempted to reel back the walls he hid from, to save himself the vulnerabilities of having to care for anybody who could possibly hurt him (though it got him to thinking on what his past may have been like to turn out the way he is, and rationalizes how he'd only gotten a parcel of the big picture of the bloke's past than he had initially thought).

 

Louis decides that very day to prevent him from doing just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have no idea on what to say, but did anybody else spot the small character developments, because I did! Also, Harry's background, what did anybody think of that? Not all has been provided, but it all should come together when I get to the end of the storyline (hopefully). Thank you for your unconditional support, and sorry again for taking so long with the update!


	12. Texting Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis does love to text.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Long break, that. Apologies for the arduous wait, here it is! But I would recommend reading the after note, regarding updates afterwards.

-  
  
  
"Listen, it's not exactly ideal for me either, but it's the only way to past the time." Harry's away in Brussels for a couple of weeks, and I'm stuck here till I get my bloody passport renewed, he thought idly.  
  
"Ideal?" Niall raises a pint to his lips. "You're having fish and chips and a couple of beers with your mates, while you wait like a good housewife for the hubby to get 'ome. What part of this is morbid, exactly? We don't see each other enough because you're too busy with this 'new' job of yours." He could tell that they're still just as curious about his recent employment as they have been, when he had first grazed a bit on the subject, and it's not helping they are always jokingly derisive when refuses to speak more of it. He should get himself new friends.  
  
"Well, it's not like that." He shoves a chip begrudgingly to his mouth. "Even if I -" His chewing staggers marginally. "- wait, hubby?! We're not exactly a couple, you know." He hadn't the foggiest as to how they could've come up with that assumption. He and _Harold_ were definitely _platonic_ at best.  
  
"Exactly." Liam repeats with a wink. "And you're not going balls over arse, checking up on him every time he doesn't text a fraction of an interval that it took you to respond." A whistle. "I gotta say, mate, you and Harry have got some weird mating ritual if you still haven't at least _shagged_ yet."  
  
He feels a flush slowly festering at the back of his neck.   
  
Where is a goddamn hatchet when he needed one?!  
  
"Or a quicky, don' forget a quicky." Supplies Niall. The bastard. "Doubt they even saw each o'der in their birthday suits yet."  
  
"But we're not a couple." He sputters, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. Why is he embarrassed? He's no slag, but he's no blushing virgin either. God, what was this? Another episode of Family Feud? "I'm -"  
  
"Four orders of fish n' chips, and five beers?" They all look up at the dark-haired bloke who approaches them with two full trays.  
  
Louis tries to surpress a sigh of relief when they immediately dug through their meal in mumbled thanks.  
  
"No, but seriously though." Liam chews out. Blast! Almost got away with it. "Next thing we know, you two go to wherever the buggering fuck your impulse takes you, and come back married."  
  
Oh, dear lord. He idly massages his temple attempting to soothe.  
  
"Is this crime watch, or summat?" He snipes half-heartedly, deliberately _not_ checking up on his phone, to prove a point (no matter how his hand itched to take a look). "Because I feel thoroughly probed, thank you."  
  
"That's what she said." Cackled Niall, nursing his pint, while wiping his grease-stained fingertips onto his shirt.  
  
Louis flicks a fry at his face.  
  
"Go fuck yourself." He sniffs, though admittedly, he should've seen that one coming. God, he's got to stop with all the damn puns.  
  
Niall, undeterred, shrugs,  
popping the fallen fry to his mouth without a blink.  
  
" ** _You're_** chastising **_me_** about innuendoes?!" Niall squawks, eyes narrowed. "Tommo, what.has.he _done_.to.you?!"  
  
"Probably got him potty trained." Liam supplies, nudging him lightly with an elbow while smirking.  
  
"Or worst.."   
  
"He's probably got to wash his own dishes." Both voiced out simultaneously, mimicking petrified, pitchy squeals. Hyperbole at its finest; he washes his dishes enough.  
  
"Oh, fuck off--"  
  
His phone buzzes, and his hand grabs at it automatically, undeterred, even when the wanking pals started making kissing noises in the background, supposedly singing about some childish drivel on he and Harry sitting on the tree.  
  
' ** _Milk_**.'  
  
' _Sorry, what?_ '  
  
' ** _And some beans as well, maybe protein powder, might probably need it. The chocolate kind, in case you've caught yourself in a predicament of selecting a decent flavour that will adhere to my acquired palate_**.' Supreme-ego more-like.  
  
' _Still not getting as to why you're listing off random grocery items that you could get yourself_.' Or, pay someone to deliver.  
  
' ** _Probably some more guac, crisps, and those sweet chocolate biscuit things that you religiously indulge on a daily basis_**.' Lies!  
  
' _You mean HobNobs? Did you even receive the previous text?_ '  
  
' ** _Obviously_**.'  
  
' _Then why aren't you responding to them?_ '  
  
' ** _Now that you mention it, I would like some yoghurt as well, some sliced fruits might suffice, but we'll have to make do, I suppose_**.'  
  
Dick.  
  
' _Do you just answer my questions with your grocery list, because I'm not doing them_.'  
  
' ** _No, but do make some tea prepared, prior my arrival_**.'  
  
' _Wank--_ ' A balled up tissue hits him directly in the eye. "What the fuck--Ow!"  
  
The duo snickers in hysterics.  
  
"Wonder who could possibly texting you." Chuckles Niall.  
  
Liam furrows his brow at the lad, confused - the precious boy. "It was Harry. I thought that it was pretty obvious."  
  
"No, Liam--"  
  
' _Wanker_.' He sends, taking a swig of his beer. Then. ' _Didn't you say that you were going to be away for a couple of weeks?_ '  
  
It took less than a minute before his phone buzzes with a response.  
  
' ** _Ah, it seems that you're in the presence of company. Do send my regards to the comedy duo_**.'  
  
'How did--' He sighs. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. ' _Just admit that you've paid some minions to check up on me_.'   
  
' ** _On what universe, will I /willingly/ submit myself to such trivial pursuits?_** ' Ouch. Not.  
  
' _It makes it easier for me to breathe, knowing that you're - hopefully - miles away - rather than spying on me everywhere I went_.'  
  
' ** _Aren't you the least bit curious as to how I knew? Also, miss me?_** ' Who the hell did this prick think he was? The Queen?  
  
' _No._ ' He replies hastily, his neck flushing a soft pink.   
  
' ** _Everyone has secrets, and they reply too quickly_**.' Quips Arrogant-arse.  
  
A pause.  
  
' _Lemme guess, reference?_ '  
  
' ** _Only the best kind, I'm afraid_**.' He most certainly was _not_ endeared.  
  
' _Fuck off._ ' He excuses himself to the loo, before either Liam or Niall could notice the apple on his cheeks. ' _Fine, tell me. How did you know?_ '  
  
He can just see that gratified slash smirk now. ' ** _You have been adequately consistent on being able to hold a conversation with yours truly, until moments ago_**.'  
  
_'But--'_ Backspace.  
  
' ** _Could be that you're participating in coitus activities, but it's Friday night, and you're hoping to attempt to wind down in an activity of which you are amenable to answering any texts sans call, so Friday nights at the bar then. Now I am well aware that Zayn had a lower percentage rate of attending because of his outstanding dedication to his studies which eliminates his presence, or a lack thereof off the equation, and hardly had you ever gone drinking alone, which is why - in attempt to salvage what's left of your questionably burgeoning camaraderie with the blonde one, and Liam - you choose to call on both of them with the foreknowledge that you are hitting two birds with one stone_**.' Also. ' ** _Even if marginally, you do scintillate._** ' In other words, _it's nice to know that you're not fully an imbecile as you present yourself to be._  
  
Before he could respond (or moreover, think of a witty comeback), Harry adds an afterthought.  
  
' ** _Did I get anything wrong_**.' Harry states, the 'not' question.  
  
' _Spot on in all-but-one_.' You berk.  
  
' ** _Tell me._** '  
  
' _You said that I called both of them, but it was Niall that called Liam, since I don't have Liam's number_.' Then, as an afterthought. ' _The bloke's the most sensible than the both of us, combined. I can hardly trust Niall to be able to get us home_.'  
  
' ** _Marron-Racine_** -" _Brown-root_ indicates google translate. Might as well add multilingual to the expanding list of Harry's many talents. " - ** _called them. There's always something_**.'  
  
' _How is it that you always manage to remember Liam and Zayn's name, but never Niall's?_ ' He asks, curious.  
  
A loud knock interrupted him from his waiting, as his mobile buzzes in his hands.  
  
"Taken." He snaps, attention automatically drifting to the awaiting text.  
  
' ** _Who?_** '  
  
He snorts. ' _Now, you're just taking the piss_.'  
  
' ** _I haven't the faintest. Have you done what I asked?_** '  
  
' _Excuse me?_ '  
  
' ** _Don't make me repeat myself_**.'  
  
' _You're not even back yet_.' He types up. ' _And who says I'll do them?_ '  
  
' ** _Helper monkey, fetch_**.'  
  
He silently gasps, outraged.  
  
"Oh for fucks sake, hurry the bloody hell up in there!"  
  
"There's more than one stall mate, get the other one!" He fumes, petulant. Can't the bloke see that he's busy? Well, when he says _see_.  
  
"Get another--This is the _only_ stall -" Okay, so he might have had a drink too many, who knew? "And I suggest if you don't want the bloody manager coming in there while you're having a wank - " How dare he?! "- then open the damn door."  
  
"Mate, just piss on the damn sink, s'not like it's going to be much different." He half-slurs, head pounding at his temple.  
  
The knocking does stop, though there are vague splashes that Louis'd prefer not to have heard, and the outside door snaps to a close.  
  
His phone beeps the second time.  
  
' ** _You are amenable to arrange therapy sessions with the amount my father's been paying you, just that you're aware_**.'  
  
He snorts at that.   
  
' _It's like you're suddenly implying that you'd somehow broken me._ ' A smirk. ' _A bit of a stroke to your ego, don't you think_.'  
  
' ** _Assuming that I haven't already_**.' Harry answers immediately.  
  
He rolls his eyes, jamming his phone within his jean pockets. A simple 'fuck off' wouldn't have done him justice.  
  
When he got out, he located Liam and no sight of Niall, though from the way Liam kept throwing glances at the other side of the dance floor, it's clear that he's never taken his eyes off the Irish bloke, not once.  
  
"I'll be kipping early, mind dealing with him, by yourself?" He half-screams towards Liam's ears. Damn dub step remixes these days, he could barely hear himself talk.  
  
Liam frowned, crossing his arms.  
  
' _Why? Something happen? Do you need me for anything?_ ' Was clearly written on his face, plain as day - oh Liam.  
  
Louis smiles briefly, assuring that he'd text him as soon as he got back to his flat.  
  
That appeared to have done the job, as Liam's whole demeanor relaxed, face melting into a mirrored grin, and then a nod, holding two thumbs up.  
  
Louis squeezed his friend's shoulder once, before hailing for a cab.  
  
  
-  
  
  
" - and here you are, clearly just back from your inane trip with drunkards, without even doing as I have asked." A voice shoots out, affronted.  
  
Louis' vision blurs as he squint to get proper focus, then blinks again to realize Harry dressed in a chic leather jacket, black button-up blouse, and painfully tight, acid-washed jeans, standing in front of the television, feet bare, and starkly pallid, all his focus targeted to Louis.  
  
He chuckles just slightly, closing his eyes. Apparitions be damn, he hadn't expected for them to be this lucid.  
  
Shadows shift on his face petulantly, the fireplace crackles steadily to his side, embers elevating and disappearing, akin to short, dissolving ribbon strands.  
  
"As much as I'd _love_ to see you indulge in your lewd fantasies about men in lacy knickers, you're very much awake, and I am yet to get my tea." The voice interrupts his nonexistent thoughts with a sneer. The whole lacy knickers thing would've bothered him, but it's practically too early for such things to coax a reactions from Louis, not till after he's had his first cup.  
  
Louis' eyes instantly snap open, and he takes in the luggages by the door, and Harry's rumpled look, as if he had been fighting to stay awake, curls appearing slightly wind-blown, a light shade of purple framing the base of his eyelids.  
  
"Harry, what - " What was he doing back so early? Why is he here? Wasn't he supposed to be in Brussels for another week?  
  
Harry rolls his eyes, as if the answers themselves should have been obvious.  
  
"Tedious. Got tremendously dull. Boring. Tea." He says, shuffling towards his large, ornate, velvet armchair, fingers tapping impatiently on his lithe knees.  
  
"How did you -" but bit back the words as quick as they came. "Does your father know, at least?" He asks, albeit tersely. "Because I'm not going to be nursing a wanted criminal."  
  
Harry's eyes took on an amused glint, but said nothing else, raising a brow.  
  
"So I'll just call him then, shall I?" He threatens, silently praying that the ruse'll work. He hated speaking to the man's assistant, but if it will get Harry to talk then he probably would.  
  
Harry's expression faltered slightly, but remained unchanged, if anything, he looked brazen, slightly stout.   
  
To anyone who had not been versed in Harry's theatrics, it would have looked as if he hadn't moved a single muscle from where he sat.  
  
"He'll have James send you a call if he notices." He speaks with contained calculation. "Though it shouldn't come after a couple of hours." - until he acknowledges it, or if he even realizes, remains unsaid.  
  
"How come he always hires straight males as his assistant, anyway?" Questions Louis idly. He can recall the less-than-pleasant disgust in his face when Louis had flirted with him the first time they met. "James." He voices, wrinkling his nose. "No misconceptions there." At least not _yet_.  
  
Harry smirks, but does not offer a reply. His posture has loosened slightly, if a bit relieved at the digression.  
  
A corner of Louis' mouth twitches, pinched. He relents on whether to pursue the subject further, but opts to making some tea instead (he would've had to do it rain or shine anyway - it's a British thing, shut up).  
  
As he was handing Harry his cuppa, does he get a reply.  
  
"I hadn't exactly been idle, even when it came to white-collared workers."   
  
He sputters mid-sip, taking a seat at his own chair.  
  
"Whoa!" He exclaims. "Don't tell me you're a closeted sex-deviant."  
  
Harry's eyes widen for a split second, almost as if he hadn't expected the comment, but narrows them instantly.  
  
"You have my file to your perusing pleasure, how had you not studied it yet?"  
  
At that, Louis shrugs.  
  
"Anything can be written, and recorded." He slowly says, though he doesn't why, exactly. "But not unbiased impressions."  
  
Harry's dish clatters at a nearby table, he looked almost...manic...  
  
"So, what?" He snipes, clenching his fist briefly. "You're basing it off good morales? That you'd have to observe with your own eyes, whether I was impressionably adequate, whether I was what the file had labeled me to be?!" His tone sounded just a tad shrill at this point, however his expression is a juxtaposition, terrifyingly empty, and...cold. "Well, you're just a true martyr, aren't you?"  
  
He'd half-expected for Harry to have left him be by now, to go off and sulk (like Louis had pointed out countless times), but the bloke closed in from where Louis sat, arms clenching around the fabric of his chair, their faces about a breath away.  
  
"But wait, that was written in the contract, wasn't it? That you'd tolerate just about anybody, no matter how inexplicable their behaviours had been, because you're paid by the _month_."   
  
"Harry -"  
  
"How does it feel like, hmmm?" He bites out, searing his attention onto Louis' eyeballs, if possible. Louis would've been burned to a crisp by now. "Earning the prime wage that most of the world would garrote for."  
  
"I -"  
  
"Well," he barks, faltering ever-so-slightly. "Sod it, I'm knackered, I-"  
  
Then - by some miracle - something clicks.  
  
"Harry, what's wrong?"  
  
Then, as if he'd been slapped silly, Harry's stance wilted slightly, grip loosening on the arm chair. His eyes glazes infinitesimally, but does not say a word, mouth flattened to a thin line.  
  
"Harry," he could feel the weight of the precipice, his heart at his throat. He's not even sure of what face he makes, but he couldn't be bothered to smother subsumed neutrality that he had been aiming for, his hands at his thighs, rim-filled tea all but forgotten on the side table. "Harry, tell me." And for good measures. "Please."  
  
But the silence only grew further, and soon, he felt trapped by Harry's gaze that remained as impenetrable as always, but there was an inkling amass all heavy blockade, and edifice walls, somehow, someway, there had been a chip to the armour that Louis had not previously seen, oozing with sheer sadness, and vulnerability.  
  
However, apparently, it was not permitted for viewing, because Harry instantly snaps up his posture into a trained standing position, instantly departing, and simultaneously entering and locking the doors to his rooms, luggages rolling from behind.  
  
"Harry -" He had called out too late.   
  
Dear god, what has he done, now?  
  
His feet had already started its way up, before he'd made sense of his own bearings, aimed towards Harry's bedroom door.  
  
"Harry, let me in." He rasps, clenching his fist lightly.  
  
No answer.  
  
"Harry, for god's sake, open the damn door."  
  
There were some shifting, but nobody beckons a welcome.  
  
"Harry," he breathes through his nose. "I will break the damn door, and I wouldn't allow anybody in to fix it, if you don't let me in, on the count of three."  
  
Okay, so he's going to have to do this.  
  
"One."  
  
There's a slight creak on the other side, but again, Harry refuses to open the door.  
  
"Two."  
  
Nadda.  
  
"Three."  
  
And he charges for the door, just as it's pried open, Harry rolling his eyes as he locks the door from behind him, now clad in a soft, silk, purple robe, a plain shirt, and pajama bottoms.  
  
"What do you want?" He grumbles, arms crossed protectively around his chest, virescent gaze scathing towards an electric fireplace at the hearth of the room.  
  
But Louis had already been taken his eyes off of Harry, indulging in the sight before him. He hadn't been allowed inside before.  
  
The room in itself was a marvel: there are four wooden bookshelves at two corners of the frame, each perpendicular to one another. Amongst hundreds of sought-through vintage paraphernalia, there are leather-bound books, and journals piled onto one another, but some are filed away on shelves, along with marble caricatures, and DVD collections, and there's even a roman bust of Nero within the tornado. He also sees a two separate doors, which he can probably guess was the lad's closet, and bathroom, but to enter either, would be suicide. Around the corner is a large trolley that's used for human-sized cadavers (he wonders how the bloke had managed to acquire it), utilized as a makeshift table for many experiments that Harry had mentioned in the past, many of which are decaying materials that ranges from floating eyeballs (though he's not sure whether it was an animal one, or a human's - he /really/ doesn't want to know) encased frothy purple liquid, to dried (slightly questionable) ant-eater tongues illuminated under a blue light. It's disgusting, and he should've ran out screaming by now, but he just...doesn't.  
  
Then it suddenly occurred to him, that he has yet to speak, in what felt like hours.  
  
"What?" He turns back to Harry who looked about as manic as a hatter, raising an eyebrow raised inquisitively. "No bed?"  
  
Harry's expression morphed into that of a confusion.  
  
"Dear god, had I known that my father had hired a blind mouse, I'd have requested another one." He huffs, stacking a few scattered (and stained might he add) papers, dropping them onto the floor, then lazily gestures towards a plush queen-sized bed covered in spreadsheets and haphazardly-scrawled compositions written on pieces of napkins, and crumpled up papers. "I'd say 'ta-da', but it seems, as though you've caught at least the gist of the trick." He doesn't vaguely recall Harry ever playing an instrument.  
  
Louis snorts, eyes rolling.   
  
"Oh, fuck off."  
  
Harry smirks.  
  
"So," and Louis echoes the word. Harry shifts into the embodiment of impatience in less than a second, bare foot tapping idly on the floor. "You are aware of my inquiry, do get on with it."  
  
But Louis hadn't been paying attention, already pulling up a thick encyclopedia, and flipping through dog-eared pages, and 'up-to-date' sticky-note corrections.  
  
Harry trails along after him, yanking the book away from his grasp, soothing its cover reverently like a mother would her child, glaring at Louis, peeved.  
  
Louis shrugs, pulling at every book he can get his hands on, but arranging them back in place.   
  
"What the bloody hell are you doing?" He could vaguely hear Harry call in after him. "Louis!"  
  
However, Louis' not listening, just carrying on from shelf-to-shelf, till Harry grasps on both his wrist to prevent him from scurrying away. He feels topsy turvy, and it's not only because of the pints he's drank.  
  
"Now that you've familiarized yourself with my room, it should be fair that you'd reciprocate propriety as I had done so from the start."  
  
"Not exactly -"  
  
"So, out with." He juts his chin haughtily. Louis is ignored, yet again. "Tell me why it is acceptable, for you to break your way into my room, and feel as though you have the rights to pry into my things."  
  
Louis grumbles out a response, tracing solemnly at his thigh.  
  
"Sorry, what?" Harry demands, his arms are crossed again. "Don't tell me father's hired a mute as well."  
  
"I said," he sighed. "I was just checking if you have a bat cave in here, or something."  
  
Harry's wording stumbles. A first, he guesses. "A - what?"  
  
"You know, a bat cave? It's used by Batman? He has a cave full off kick-ass machinery, and weapons?" Harry's face remain blank, as if he had no idea as to what language Louis had been reiterating for the past minute. "He's a billionaire, has a butler named Alfred?"  
  
Still nothing.  
  
"Oh, for god's sake." He palms at his face.  
  
"Pop culture has never been a necessity to where I would verse myself in." Harry sniffs, a bit pensive. "Additionally, trivialities regarding fictional characters are a waste of effort, as I could gain optimal enjoyment whilst reading from a paperback."  
  
"But, Batman!" Louis argues weakly. "Tell me that you at least watched the movies?"  
  
Harry blinks.  
  
Louis groans onto the heels of his palm, seating himself onto a nearby recliner.  
  
"Lou -"  
  
"Please tell me you're alright."  
  
And Harry instantly silences himself, his body turning away slightly, hunched.   
  
"I know, I've got no right to ask." Louis starts, voice straining to a rasp. He hardly remembers that he needed to drink a tall glass of water before going to bed. "Heck, we don't even know each other that well, but I hate having to tiptoe around you, every time you want to seclude yourself from the world." He swallows drily. Fuck, this is hard. "So, like, if you just need somebody to talk to, I'm here almost all the time? And it doesn't even have to be the big guns, I'll listen through literally anything you say, so.." Even an ill-veiled insult would've done.  
  
Harry takes a step back, tension and anxiety lining his lithe frame.  
  
"And you won't have to worry about me telling your father about it, unless it harms either you, or me, my mouth's closed, even if he threatened to fire me." And he means it more than anything he's sworn in his life.  
  
Harry takes a calculated breath, before turning his head slightly, still hunched, but there's amusement in his eyes.  
  
"Pity, we could've split the fee, do think it through." He murmurs with a half-smirk, accent briefly increasing in a posh volume. A reference, yet again, he thinks. Good.  
  
Neither of them said a word for a couple of minutes, before Louis' gone fidgety, his cheeks a plum red with the confession.  
  
"Well?!" He heaves.  
  
Harry hums, rolling his eyes, but regards Louis' entirety.  
  
Louis sighs, shaking his head, and making a slow beeline for the door, and pausing by the handle.   
  
He's feeling tired with all the alcohol that's finally settled itself in his bloodstream that he reckons he could just sleep himself into a coma till the next century.  
  
It's as he was out the door, that he does get a reply.  
  
"I'm not...fine." Harry slowly drawls, careful, soft even. "But I will be."  
  
Louis inclines his head towards the source, and nodding with a small smile, doing a mock salute.  
  
Thank god, he had wanted to say.  
  
"Listen, if you ever need a -"  
  
Harry sighs, more tired than annoyance.  
  
"Yes, yes, I have attended a meeting or two."  
  
"Cheeky." He voices back.  
  
"A desirable trait." Replies Harry cooly, almost relieved, but then again, he could have just, maybe imagined it?  
  
Louis laughs.  
  
"Debatable."  
  
And the door closes from behind him, before he could hear the response.  
  
He heads off into his own room, collapsing like a log, and falling asleep before his head could hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to keep you guys for long at the starting note, but I'm afraid that the later chapters would take just as long as this one, if not longer, because it's already back to school. I really am sorry for taking so long, but I have higher priorities to tend to, as much as I'd love procuring updates for all of you. I apologize again, and thank you for understanding.


	13. Cuba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis and Harry get more than what they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I did this thing. I had no idea how long you guys had been willing to wait, but I figured since I've just finished mid-terms, I'd be a bit more productive with this story, and proceed with I had been endeavouring to construct. As always, hopefully you guys enjoy it.

• 

 

"Yes, I'd like it now."

 

Louis blinks, turning his head to take a look at the source of the noise.

 

"Sorry?"

 

"The tea." Harry provides, flicking through his texts as one of his other phones (that are in a neat pile, mind you) buzzes to life, indicating another horrendous photo of some guy named Nicholas from twitter, and a slew of blonde super models around him that were apparently Harry's friends as well (as supplied by the man himself). Pompous arse.

 

"What? When?"

 

Harry's face contorts slightly, his brow furrowing in annoyance, face still hung on to his phone(s) screen, deliberately _not_ acknowledging Louis, face illuminated by a slight bluish glow, eyes a luminous teal colour.

 

"You had asked of me if I was interested in a brew, and here I am informing you of my reply to your question."

 

"But I didn't ask if you'd wanted any." Louis frowns, confused. "From what I can remember, my arse's been cramping in this stupid seat for the past two hours, in a flight that you've only told me about when I was just about to kip for the night. Ta for that, by the way."

 

"I did remind you." Supplies Harry, fingers gliding through his keypad with agile, whimsical fingertips (which is quite unfair in contrast to Louis' slightly shorter, fumbly ones). "Quite succinctly. Hardly my fault that you hadn't been listening."

 

"Is this the part where you'll tell me exactly _when_ I had supposedly heard that?"

 

"Right when you were about to buy groceries." Harry sighs languidly, snapping a photo of his half-eaten sandwich, and posting it on twitter. "I thought it had been fairly obvious."

 

"You just said 'pack'." Louis dead-panned. "Excuse me for not taking you seriously after your countless times of trying to get me evicted." He can name at least a dozen times of which Harry had physically extricated himself from Louis' clutches (when he could get away with it), only to get a terse, yet firm command for the 'package' to be brought back to his milleu.

 

"And I had been serious every other time, including this one. Had you heed to my warning as you should a doctrine, you'd have faired better with Gretta."

 

And that took him off guard for a moment.

 

"Sorry, who exactly _is_ Gretta?"

 

"The security guard who has peruse through your belongings. Are you - by any chance - an amnesiac? Has she caused indentations on your neurological synapses to forget the day all together?" Another text sent.

 

"But, 'Gretta' had a moustache, and everything." Louis flails his hands in exasperation, absently rubbing at his bruised temple. "Even stronger than me, and the rest of the boys, combined." He adds, albeit reluctantly. "How could that person be a woman?"

 

"She has profoundly globular breasts." Harry hums idly, oddly reminiscent.

 

Louis snorts. "Yeah, you'd know."

 

Harry finally looks up from his phone, rolling his eyes impatiently, waving an empty porcelain mug with the a Heathrow Airport logo emblazoned on the front of it to his face, along with H. Styles in a neat cursive on the side.

 

Not a chance.

 

"I didn't know that they even let us have personalized mugs." Especially customized ones, he mentally notes.

 

"Really?" Harry raises a brow. "How hard it must've been to be raised on a farm."

 

"Oh, for god's sake -" he swipes a hand at his face. "I _was_ being sarcastic!"

 

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, do you know?" Harry lazily scolds, fumbling a free hand through his satchel, and pulling out a large-sized thermos, pouring coffee onto his mug.

 

"You said we didn't have enough time to make coffee." Louis seethes, just as Harry was calmly regarding him, taking a sip. "I almost dozed on the waiting terminal till you threw a candy wrapper at my face to get me to bring your other luggage that you could've carried on your own."

 

"I never said that _we_ didn't have enough time to make some coffee, I said that _you_ did not have time to make coffee." Harry corrects with a sniff.

 

"We could've picked up some while we waited." Louis half-growls. "Three hours is quite a wait, don't you think?" Especially when he only got about a half hour nap.

 

"To be paid for by my credit card."

 

"I told you that I'd pay you in full when we get back to the flat."

 

"How very assuring." Harry types out yet another reply.

 

"We live together, and your father's paying me a fortune as it is, how could I have been mooching off of you, when I always pay for the groceries?"

 

"And not even a meager of the actual amount."

 

"You use my credit card to see pay-per-views on the television, without my permission, once that you refused to let me watch."

 

Harry mumbles something incoherent.

 

"And when we eat out, you always harass me to pay the bill."

 

Harry says nothing, even went ahead as to popping an earbud onto one of his ears.

 

"Oh, for god's sake, Styles." He grits. "Pour me some of that."

 

Curly haired and annoying makes no indication that he's even heard a word, still ensuing with his snap chatting, and instagram-ing.

 

Louis engulfs his face with his hands.

 

Which deity has he pissed of now to deserve this?

 

 

-

 

 

He sees a steaming cup of coffee right by his seat when after he had gone to the loo.

 

Confused, he chances a glance to Harry who appeared engaged on whoever he was Skyping in what he thinks was Spanish, inserting scathing glares, and sinewy gesticulations with strips of pallid wrists that flicker whenever his sleeves bunch up at the crook of his elbow, a tiny v permanently carved onto his brow line.

 

"No seas un idiota."

 

( **Don't be an idiot**.)

 

"Usted sabe que no puede permitirse el lujo de cometer un error."

 

( **You know you can't afford to make a mistake**.)

 

"Mira, no me importa _lo_  te equivocaste." His voice rumbles onto the mic of his earpiece, almost reverberating with brazen.

 

( **Look, I don't care _how_ you screwed up**.)

 

"Sólo lograr que se haga, y obtendrá su paquete."

 

( **Just get it done, and you'll get your parcel**.)

 

Louis could barely see the other person reply on the other end just before Harry slams his laptop to a close.

 

"I take it that it went well?" He smirks, taking a sip of his cup. "Ta very much for the brew, by the way."

 

Harry's nose scrunches in disgust.

 

"Like I'd even consider your health and well-being." He replies, but not denying it in the least, which was...different.

 

"Then how did this get here?" He waves at the cooling styrofoam. "Don't they charge for coffee?"

 

"Actually," Harry throws him a condescending sneer. "As much as you love to entertain the idea of myself to be a hero of sorts, there are legitimate documents that state otherwise."

 

"You saved a little girl from getting hit by that damn cabbie." Louis points out.

 

"Only because I had wanted to inquire about the sanity in her fashion sense." Quips Harry, shifting infinitesimally in his seat, a slight flush filming the nape of his neck that seldom gave him away. "Tweed skirt, and aberguine polo." He snorts haughtily. "Atrocious."

 

"You know," Louis starts, smirking. "You're always making yourself _look_ like you're above it all."

 

"I don't even know what's that supposed to mean." Harry replies with a sniff after a pause, aimlessly flicking through his apps, not once meeting eyes with Louis.

 

"Can I get a recording of that?" He jests. "No, I mean you're always up there in that shiny ivory tower of yours, all cold and unfeeling, like you're untouchable, and nothing could get to you. But that's not really it, is it? You're just as human as every single one of us."

 

When Harry says nothing, he found himself resuming as though he's possessed.

 

"You feel the way we do, you feel empathy for other people just as much. Maybe more." He adds in a whisper. "So if I can help you with something, anything, just tell me, alright? Don't try to handle everything all at once. You're not alone anymore, Harry."

 

Unexpectedly, Harry's expression morphs from fragile porcelain, to clear-cut glass within a nanosecond, but he provides Louis with a jerky nod that was either tensed or a begrudging one, he's not too sure, could have been both.

 

"Why must you bother to provide me with such persistent reassurances?"

 

Louis blinks away his drowsiness to mumble incoherently in what he'd assume would be further inquiries rather than an answer.

 

"I-It's not as if I'm a damsel in distress." Harry persists with slight sadness tinging his tone. "Nor am I made of glass either. I'm just.." He waves his hand idly, bereft of words.

 

Louis hums.

 

"No, I know." He assures him. "But someone has to say it to you, at least?" He risks, refusing to fidget at the assumption.

 

Harry's eyes widen infinitesimally in his direction like he'd been chastised, lips barely parted before he noses at his phone once more, a small tug at the corner of his mouth that should be invisible to anyone but Louis.

 

"At least Father could've made a more horrendous choice in babysitters." And that's the closest thing to a compliment Louis could've ever received from the bloke.

 

"Really?" He perks up like a damn dog, coffee most likely manifesting to an ice cube. "I should honestly document these things, maybe have them posted up on the wall. No wait, maybe I can tweet about it!"

 

Harry rolls his eyes, but there's something like mirth hiding beneath his eyelids.

 

"Don't push it." The latter drawls. "You're not exactly star-worthy either."

 

"I'm aware of that." Louis huffs indignantly. "It's just," he chews on the corner of his lip to in an attempt to contain his excitement. "When I see you with people, you always look like you'd rather shoot yourself in the face than have to bother with even listening to them. But you take my thoughts in consideration, and you complimented me."

 

"Technically, I insulted you." Harry groans, wiping a hand at his face. "As to why I even bother listening to you is disturbingly puzzling."

 

"Admit it." He nudges Harry playfully. "You like me."

 

"Quite the opposite, in fact." Harry quips, sipping at Louis' barely-touched cup, wrinkling his nose. Thought so. "I'd prefer to reference to you as my mascot."

 

"Mascots usually have a theme in animal variations, right? Which one are you? "

 

Harry grumbles under his breath in what Louis presumed was a petulant squawk, curling more towards himself, facing the window with intent vigor.

 

Score one for Louis.

 

 

-

 

 

"Oh for god's - Harry, slow the fuck down, will you?!" He bellows after the bloody git. "You made me carry your luggages out, and you're suddenly running a marathon. It was a joke, get over it!"

 

Harry doesn't slow down. In fact, his pace seemed to pick up speed in the hot, moist environment. Who's idea was it to visit Cuba anyways?

 

His phone buzzes in his pockets.

 

**Mum _(Calling)_**

 

 

He had been avoiding her all month when he had been photographed alongside Harry in that damn café, and she had been aggressively persistent with her phone calls more than usual (especially when they've been caught together at a Pit-Stop by a half-crazed fan who somehow had the assumption that he and Harry are in a relationship - she and the rest of the world).

 

' _At a situation where phone calls are not allowed_.' He quickly plucks out. _'Might call back later_.'

 

"Why is it that you're regularly omitting details from her?" Harry suddenly breathes at his neck. "Might, probably, maybe, when I can, later, soon." He hovers around Louis as if he had been circling a wild animal, eyes narrowed in concentration. "One would probably assume that you detest her."

 

Louis wraps both arms around himself despite the overwhelming heat.

 

"You were supposed to be running away, you git." He does his best to school the dull indignance from his tone.

 

"We've discussed it in detail," Harry reminds. "It's mutual, quite literally. However, since when have I ever yielded to your wishes?" And it posed as a sort of challenge that got his teeth gritting.

 

"Goddamn - Harry, just go bother, I don't know, that girl sunbathing on the beach."

 

Harry doesn't even bother to check.

 

"Women - plural. One if them is a woman born in the male anatomy." He corrects, smirking with hardness at his eyes. "And that's still yet to be a valid answer to my inquiry."

 

Louis swipes a frustrated hand at his face.

 

"Oh, so you care now?" He snorts, clutching at his skin in vice grip. He can't get himself to directly look at Harry. "I'd assume that you've already forgotten I came with you to this trip."

 

"You're deviating from the topic, you're hunching your shoulders, and you appear as though you're willing to be swallowed down by the storm." He murmurs quietly, hands fidgeting at his sides in what appeared to be restlessness. He must've not been used to asking for these kind of things. "How is it that you're keen to know so much about my personal life, when you yourself could not reciprocate?"

 

"It's different!" Louis blurts out accidentally. "It's totally different, and you know it."

 

"But how?" Harry tilts his head, expression refusing to give anything away. "Oh," he chuckles darkly, shadows shifting in his eyes. Louis shivers slightly. "You know," he muses. "I've always been baffled by your dedication for my well-being."

 

"Harry, what -"

 

"From a low-wage, vet's assistant, to a babysitter for the rich, and recovering drug-addicts." What? Why was Harry saying all these things? He's never spoken about his stint in rehab. "I suppose that it should have been transparent from the start that you - that I didn't..." His voice cuts off in a low squeak, like words had failed him.

 

"Harry, don't just assume - "

 

"Then what is it?" Harry's eyes sharpens, and slices onto the clear skies. "Because you're stepping on dangerous waters, Tomlinson."

 

"Don't just pin the blame on me about holding out, when you're just as bad."

 

"Excuse me?" Harry retorts tersely, outrage laced in his tone.

 

"You know so much about my life." He starts, squashing down his attempts to appearing more hurt than he already was. "You know about my family, you know about my friends, heck you even know that I got my first tattoo when I was drunk. All of that, just from...what? Looking at me? Interacting with me? It's only fair that I can keep things from you, when you've been at it right at the very start."

 

"You have access to my file!" Harry scowls. "Had you chanced a glance at it, we would've been on even plain fields."

 

"I promised that I'm not going to read your damn file, you idiot!" He counters. "I know you're not that person, and I refuse to have someone try to influence that."

 

Harry opens his mouth to retort some more, but Louis continues as if he hadn't.

 

"And another thing, don't tell me that I know so much about you, because I really don't. Any self-conceived fan of yours could've searched you up on Google, and know as much as I do, maybe more, and I actually _live_ with you. Face it Harry, even with almost a year of knowing each other, we're just as good as strangers." He had to remind himself to regulate his breathing. "I _am_ trying, but how the hell am I supposed trust you, when there's nothing in that inflated ego of yours that felt the same? You want me to leave that badly? Fine. When we get back, I'll arrange a meeting with your father if you still want me to. I'll go back to my old life, and you'll go back to yours. No hard feelings. It would suck that I have to work large shifts again, but it's better knowing that all my efforts had been fruitful, rather than seeing them go to waste. Goodbye." And he turns towards the location of the hotel.

 

He faintly hears his name from behind that got him to pause, and check whether he heard correctly.

 

Harry's whole posture drooped from where he stood. His mouth is tightly sagged, and his eyes looked murky and unreadable. His hands were balled into tight fists, whilst one of his feet slightly poised as if debating whether to approach or not.

 

Neither spoke a word for a while, but when Harry opened his mouth, a man in uniform appeared, diverting his attention.

 

Louis shakes his head, smiling a bit too morbid for his liking, then walking towards the entrance.

 

No point in trying anymore.

 

 

 

-

 

 

**To: Des.Styles@stylescorp.co.uk**

**Subject: Meeting Arrangement**

 

 _Dear Mr. Styles_ |

 

 

His fingers appeared to be stuck at the awaiting keys.

 

A half hour passes.

 

He sighs, slamming the damn laptop to a close.

 

 

-

 

 

 

He thinks he passes by Harry on his way to the breakfast buffet.

 

Somehow, the very idea of food repulsed him.

 

 

-

 

 

 

As he ganders the pale, gritty sand for seashells does a large, all-too-familiar shadow encompasses his, and fills the empty seat beside his own.

 

He tenses.

 

Harry notices him tense - he notices everything. Well. Almost everything.

 

"Huh, I'd presume you'd be the surfing type." Harry admits, stretching his lithe, gaunt frame with too many prominent bones on his ribcage area. Louis grabs at the hand that urged to touch every single one with worship, and reverence. This is not the time for that. "Though I'd suppose I should've predicted as such, with your vehement adamance towards Liam's workout regiments."

 

Louis hums quietly, slipping on his shades and earphones on, and sliding back on his chair with heavy metal songs that could potentially damage his ear drums. He's not in the mood to even socialize with Harry. Why had he always managed to locate Louis at just the right moment?

 

He opens his eyes once more, and Harry leaves as if dissipating from thin air without another word.

 

 

-

 

 

"...Lo siento, señior -" And the rest of the garbled slew was muted, which is - no doubt - discretion to other guests who might overhear.

 

Louis licks at his thumb to unstick an especially stubborn group of pages from sticking to the other. A downfall of old print.

 

He had barely been aware of the drawling silence until he had immediately leapt from his seat towards the barrage of knocking at his door.

 

He looks through his peephole only to meet eyes with icy forest greens that looked all too familiar for his liking. Louis squeaks in fright, and immediately sets off to back away inconspicuously as he could allow, only to be interrupted mid-way to his chair.

 

"Louis, for god's sake. Let me in." Intones Mr. Curls-McBaritone, void of any edges that he had been expecting.

 

When Louis doesn't respond, there was further knocking, more insistent, and if a bit frantic, instead of the usual prince-like demeanor that basically defined the majority of Harry's traits, that and his over-inflated ego.

 

"Louis. I am aware of your presence. Open the bloody door." Then, almost as an acquiescent, small tone, he adds in "please".

 

And no matter how he would love to get a personal recording of that, he just couldn't catch his bearings properly to move.

 

Another minute passes, and he hears a barely audible sigh that sounded more strangled than tired irritation.

 

"Um. You, uh, you said that I could...anytime...?"

 

To do..what, exactly?

 

Then a thought had occurred to him.

 

 Oh.

 

**Oh.**

 

He has been idiot, a complete, blind idiot. He should've opened that cursed door from the start, instead of hiding away to sulk in the corner like a bloody mice till the whole trip would had been over.

 

His hands immediately fly to the ornate door handle (because apparently it came with being exuberantly wealthy), only to catch Harry unaware, as he was about to head at another direction.

 

"Harry!"

 

And, as though he's been struck by lightning, Harry infinitesimally loses footing for a second, before regarding Louis with a coy, chastised  little boy beneath his lashes, then bowing his head in resignation just as fast, a calloused hand clasped tightly around the opposite wrist that's strapped at front.

 

They remain at the same position until both absently jumps at the sound of foreign languages mending along with pop-culture beats and rhythm, accompanied by a serenade of all-too-distinctive cheers.

 

It was then that Harry's rigid form tightens, as if he was registering the non sequitur as well, but unable to formulate a single word like he'd been robbed of them at the moment.

 

"I.." Louis could see the bloke's throat work. "This is stupid..I should just -"

 

"No."

 

And Harry's face immediately snaps to face his, surprised by his abrupt interruption, damp curls bobbing along with the movement.

 

"No?" He mimics quietly with an endearing tilt of the head, his eyes pink, and blown out of proportion, with very little of the ring present, but mostly curious, and a minuscule of hopefulness practically oozing from his usually unreadable, practiced mask.

 

Louis coughs briefly, inserting himself back inside his hotel room, and inclining just a tiny bit for Harry to uncoordinatedly stumble on his footing, only to collapse onto Louis' bed with a slight whoosh, face first onto the tasteful, disgustingly orange/green fabric.

 

For a second, he'd have thought that Harry had passed out, but the berk giggles, blindly setting himself upright with wobbly hands, until he is seated to get a proper look at Louis, whilst slightly drowsy.

 

"Harry - You.. Are you high?!" He sputters, mentally checking the symptoms, and yanking a water bottle open, and pressing the rim to the bloke's lip.

 

"Obvious, next question." Harry downs the water within seconds, then heading towards Louis' stash of water bottles with rubber band legs. Louis pushes him back to ( _his_ ) bed, and shoving another water bottle at the bloke's chest.

 

"Oh, nonono, you don't get to bloody do this Harry," he shrieks. " "- you don't get to just come here plastered and high as a rocket, _just_ to mess about my room, when I -" clearly don't want to speak to you right now.

 

"Talk.." Harry mumbles incoherently. "You said."

 

"But I didn't mean like _this_." He waves his hand agitatedly towards Harry. "I wanted to have nothing influence you to speak to me, but by your own volition, not narcotics!"

 

"S'the only way." Harry replies, swaying slightly. "Can't talk pro-prop -" He furrows his brow in concentration, or maybe irritation.

 

"Properly?" Supplies Louis.

 

"That." Harry nods, pointing at Louis with a shit-eating-grin that doesn't quite fit his face. "Can't properly com-communi- _cate_ without them."

 

"And why not?" Louis finds himself asking.

 

Harry chuckles with a string of no's, wiggling his index finger, shaking his head languorously.

 

"An answer for an answer." He states silkily. "Now why don't you answer my question."

 

Louis chews on his lower lip.

 

"Alright." Oh god, he already thinks he's going to regret this. "Okay. I'll try."

 

Harry smiles, long and wide, seating himself comfortably on the bed, leaning against the wall.

 

"Well?!"

 

"You are aware of it. No need to repeat myself." Harry replies smoothly, void of any stutters, or incorrigible sentences from earlier. Had he been faking this whole time, Louis would've had his throat, but it's obvious that there had been some truth to it, if the glassiness in Harry's eyes intensifies intermittently had anything to go by.

 

"She and I... We don't exactly..get on.." Well, okay, he honestly had no idea the words would come out as sensually as this.

 

Harry raises a brow in further inquiry.

 

"She... I love her, I do." He breathes through his nose to keep these unbridled feelings from spewing over. "It's just that... Sometimes I feel like..." He swallows a few times, eyes flickering towards his bare toes on the floor. "I don't know." A shrug. "I feel like my only purpose is to please her, to get her to at least look at me with pride, just once. Not with di-disappointment." And it's probably going a bit off kilter, but he felt like he needed to say it, even if it was in front of Harry, and he couldn't come up with a coherent reply as to how it didn't seem to bother him. At all. "And by not including all the details of my life to her, I feel like the way I'm living right now belongs to me, a-and I know it's selfish, but -"

 

"Stop." Harry has his eyes closed, his mouth pinched into a tight line, maybe a grimace if Louis had been lucky. "Just...stop. It's not. You know. That. It's not." He insists.

 

And Louis had been surprised by Harry's lack of the usual drivel he spews on a daily basis, but he hadn't exactly anticipated Harry's understanding dismissiveness.

 

"Harry..."

 

As if a tableau comes to life, Harry holds his gaze with a strong spark, like a bolt of electricity surging through them, searing onto Louis' own. And that speaks volume by itself with so many unspoken words that transmits through them.

 

"Be a dear, and do fetch me some of the crisps, will you?"

 

And as if some punch line on a comedy goes, so does the vulnerability he felt.

 

"Excuse me?" He barks, affronted.

 

"Crisps." Harry rolls his eyes. "Don't you think that I've forgotten the stash that you hide under your bed."

 

"No," he shakes his head, grip tightening on both fists. "I just told you my -"

 

"And you want me to feel, what? Sorry for you? Boring." Harry sighs. "I never took you as a person to pity."

 

"What -"

 

"I'm not a priest, Mr. Tomlinson." Harry corrects, gaze blazing a molten emerald. "Therefore, I cannot provide you with the Hail Mary's, or the Our Father's, or the Glory Be's, or let alone have your precious time with Allah, because I'm not one to sully my time with such trivialities. What exactly had you expected when you had mentioned that? Hmm? That I'd immediately share the darkest of my secrets with you, like all the dull camaraderie humanity has to offer?"

 

"Well, not exactly -"

 

"But you've anticipated for something more substantial, is that right?"

 

Louis looks down again. He knows it's true.

 

"I arrived here, to follow through to your offer to act as my 'log' of sorts." Harry scratches at the top of his head. "And it would appear as though we have stumbled on an impasse."

 

Louis lifts his head at Harry's confession.

 

"So, in order for this whole ordeal to be progressive, and dynamic..." He trails off, fiddling with his fingers for the tenth time today. "I suppose your offer should be reciprocated by yours truly."

 

And before Louis' got his mouth to blurt out a possibly probing question, Harry halts him with a hand.

 

"And before you can ask of me incriminating details about my life, it should be fair that I present to you a set of rules to make this endeavor a bit more palatable."

 

Louis can't believe what he's hearing, but he nods anyway.

 

Harry bobs his head once in recognition prior continuation.

 

"You are allowed to ask me questions at a given time of which I will allow. Or tell me a detail about your life that you feel like sharing with me. But here's the thrilling part." Harry smirks, folding his hands diplomatically. "Our answers don't have to be on par with the other. Tell me about a dead body you've stowed away, and I - in turn - will talk about how I craved sweets that very day. Just as it is the other way around."

 

"But, what if you don't want to answer the question being asked?" Louis inquires, feeling the tingling curl towards his toes in excitement.

 

Harry hums, nodding accordingly. "Then you can answer truthfully, and, or tell an outrageous lie. No further questions asked. If you choose neither, then one can provide inane, truthful, tedious details that pertain one's life that has to absolutely match the value of the inquiry. For example, if I had asked about a sister of yours, and you had refused to answer, I will provide you - for that question - two to three of the pets I may or may not have lost."

 

Louis gasps. "You lost more than one pet?!"

 

"Not the point." Harry sniffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "To be fair, I had only been 4 months old." He immediately defends.

 

"Sure..." Louis chuckles, then he remembers that he had to follow through as well. "I killed at least 2 of my sisters gerbils."

 

Harry furrows his brow, frowning slightly, but not probing further. So, he just had to.

 

"And I told them that they've been getting the wrong brand of food to feed them, so they switch the type of kibble, or lettuce every single time they get a new hamster ever since, and to this day, they still follow through with it. Even if they do get mum to drive all over town to look for other brands."

 

Harry's chuckle rumble slightly at his chest, but he looked slightly troubled by the confession. As to why, he's not completely honed it in, quite yet.

 

"You don't have to add in more details if you like." Louis found himself saying. "Let's draw a moot point anytime. It's not exactly in official document, so if one of us gives more detail in our answer, it doesn't have to be followed by another one if we're uncomfortable by it, alright?" And he offers his hand.

 

Harry stares at it briefly, then scanning Louis, before swinging his legs to the floor with a low thump, and swallowing Louis' proffered palm with his own, yanking his hand incrementally down in a formal handshake.

 

"Deal."

 

 

-

 

 

 

As he was sifting through his emails in the plane to Heathrow, does he stumble on a draft he's previously attempted:

 

**_Dear, Mr. Styles,_ **

****

**_I'd like to speak more about your son. Would it be alright if you'd set up a meeting for you and I when you are free, after we get back from the trip? Please get in touch as soon as possible._ **

****

**_Best regards,_ **

****

**_Louis Tomlinson._ **

 

 

 

• • •

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And as the wise saying goes: Don't kill me, I just had to. See you all at next update! 
> 
> On another note, I am very grateful for every comment I receive. Thank you.


	14. Vices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They played a game. Louis was unprepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello current readers,
> 
> This particular chapter had been in my phone ever since last year. I had been intending to finish it up, but couldn't find the right way to end it. I found it.

  *   
  
  
At first it hadn't really been about the initiative to break the ice.  
  
Quite frankly the time had been anticlimactic since they've both been already making slight progressions towards getting acquainted with the other since the beginning, whether they agreed with it or not. But nonetheless, the more knowledge he knew of Harry, the more he comes closer to at least trying to figure the bloke out (though most information suggested more questions than answers - sigh).  
  
Louis had been tensed, and Harry had been...well, as normal as an eccentric genius he has been for as long as Louis could remember, which - now that he thought about it - had been deviating away from the norm day by day (sometimes he even wonders if it ever _had_ been normal in the first place). But to his astonishment, it had been Harry who had initiated their game (or so-called charade).  
  
  
"Anaphylactic shock, or a stab to the major artery, which would you rather save?" Harry doesn't pause on his typing on his laptop whilst he speaks.  
  
Louis - to be fair - had been about to take a bite out of his Panini, both his hands poised mid-air.  
  
"It depends." He decides, taking a bite anyway. Morbid's been a typicality in this household. Nothing new, really. "Is one of them up for death's row, or something?"  
  
Harry's fingers take a seconds pause.  
  
"Identical twins to the boot, illegal immigrants, and one of them had committed a homicide against the gardener, but they both have history for violent schizophrenic episodes."  
  
"Specific." Louis comments, lunging for another bite. "Have you - by any chance - acquired a twin brother?"  
  
Harry glares at him.  
  
"Easy, blud." Louis chuckles, raising both his hands up in up in defense. He still takes pleasure in humoring Harry at every opportunity he is allowed. If not, then he makes them regardless - which is always. "Joking, remember?"  
  
"Sometimes I wonder how you're able to hold conversations, when your fluency in linguistics consists of 98% jest, and 200% drivel." Snipes Harry, huffing churlishly. His virescent gaze softening ever-so-slightly, oddly reminiscent for a nanosecond that Louis almost thought he dreamt it up.  
  
"That's how you communicate with humanity, android. You know? If you'd like to make friends." Louis smirks, batting his lashes coyly.  
  
And for quick minute, Harry's eyes cloud over in confusion.  
  
"Why would I want that?"  
  
"No reason at all." Louis decides, waving the subject away.  
  
  
-  
  
  
"Feminine products that you'd most likely consider wearing incognito." Louis asks, his breath fogging up the glass on the window of their cab. He's just about done drawing a sick mustache on his own reflection.  
  
"A pink thong, and or a silk lace bra." Harry smirks, narrowing his eyes at picture he sees on his phone. "Though, I had been dared to wear one of the following for two-hundred quid, and still have it in my possession to this day."  
  
Louis purses his lips at the thought, a brush of heat lighting his cheekbones.  
  
"Am I allowed to ask which one?"  
  
Harry flickers a glance at him.  
  
"Depends."  
  
"On?"  
  
"Your recent porn preference that you've meticulously kept hidden."  
  
Louis' face is akin to beets. "Can't I just tell you a fact about myself?"  
  
Harry's eyes glitter at the sound.   
  
"Oh yes, of course." He nods, lazily scrawling his signature on the accumulated fog. "Either way, the details will just be just as voracious in quantity." And he drifts off as though he had more to say, but abruptly smacks his lips shut instead.  
  
"But how will I know whether you'll actually answer the question or not? Or the other way around?" Louis crosses his arm calculatingly.  
  
"Take that risk?" Harry drawls, raising a brow, lips pouted slightly in mock innocence. "Additionally, the balance of probability to which you'd provide me wholly with the truth is paramount."  
  
Louis thinks for a moment, tapping a hand at his thigh, willing away the blush that threatens to bloom from his chest. He didn't want to see the smug look on Harry that he'd received a few too many times, so he'll concede. At least for now. God, this better be worth it.  
  
"Spanking."  
  
Harry looked taken back for a moment, analyzing him for all tense and purposes, before his gaze contemplatively drifts to his lap.  
  
Louis could practically hear the cogs churning a thousand miles per hour in the bloke's head, and for sure he'd thought that Harry wouldn't speak anymore of it. Unexpectedly, he does (but not in a way he had expected).  
  
"There are more tornadoes and landslides than one might initially think. Sometimes they're easy to ignore - there are days, however." Was spoken without weight, airy in all the right ways that sounded more deceptive than the obvious truth, and Louis hates it. Hates that this had been Harry's second-nature at all times that he's known the lad. Hates that this spoke volumes of history that began with a garden brimming with flowers of all sorts, and is now subdued to drooping leaves, and haggard petals, imprisoned from the light that had been meant to fuel it.  
  
He is all too aware of his position in this equation, how he is an anomaly among integers, and values that remained constant without need be. A single number that is deductible, and yet remains in existence - A pawn to the king's disposal.   
  
He loathes that he couldn't be more, vehemently loathes that his importance is of no redeemable rank to be regarded as a beneficiary rather than a hindrance - a border. It eats away at him like a cold slice of a knife that he could be replaceable. And another for daring to conceive such foul thoughts even when he had no right to.    
  
Either way, neither of them had any idea what _to_ say that doesn't breach the rules of this 'not-game'.  
  
Harry's got his chin propped on the heel of his palm, decidedly done with acknowledging Louis' presence, while the latter taps his fingers idly on his thighs, refusing to give into his primal instinct of studying Harry on almost all accounts (no matter how the siren call of old habits had tempted him).  
  
Then silence.  
  
"For the record," Louis inhales through his nose, flicking idly at his hair. He feels as though the opportunity had warranted further details. "I hadn't exactly been lying."  
  
Harry freezes, his attention fully on Louis. He didn't seem at all deterred, he appeared perfectly comfortable omitting about his foreknowledge of the revelation. Which made Louis idly question whether Harry had been cheating the whole time.   
  
By now he's forever taken to the habit of adding pages to Harry's file of abilities that ordinarily should've sent him packing, but just...doesn't.  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Oh." Harry repeats, blinking rapidly.  
  
"Don't go advertising that to everyone we know." Louis blurts, flushing. "Heaven knows they'll never let me live it down."   
  
"We haven't discussed a non-disclosure agreement yet." Harry points out, slowly yet steadily returning to his usual self.  
  
"HARRY!"  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
Non-disclosures revised twice (after Niall - a law student points out loopholes to the agreement - in any case Harry embezzles), and revised once more (for good measures - quips Louis, he could never be too careful with the curly haired berk), before being filed officially by Louis and Harry (and by default, Niall, Liam and Zayn).  
  
"I'm not paid enough for this. Actually, I'm not even being paid at all." Niall nurses his third Guinness of the night solemnly. Harry rolls his eyes, materializing yet another pint for Niall, to add to his tab in compensation. "Please tell me this isn't fer a crime you're about to do?"  
  
Louis and Harry glare scathingly at each other from both sides of the table.  
  
"No comment." They reply simultaneously.  
  
Zayn and Liam just shake their heads conspiratorially.  
  
  
-  
  
  
"Okay, what about the worst movie you'd ever watched?"  
  
"What's this one called again?"  
  
"Eyes on the screen, Styles." He commands for the thirty-first time for the evening. "It's almost getting to the good part."  
  
"And yet you kept reiterating that for the past hour, and I am yet to bask on anything else apart from nuclear explosions every 2 minutes."  
  
Then train number three explodes.  
  
A nasal dictation at best. "Eyes. On. The. Sodding. Screen."  
  
  
-  
  
  
"I inherently loath the sight of yellow. And not those meringue pie ones, the type of yellow that borders neon green." Harry announces one day when Louis' getting ready for a date with a bloke he met when he was personally buying Harry the type of tea he liked, because Louis apparently had drank the last one that Harry had meticulously supplied but didn't due to a meeting he had in Paris with his father. Jerk.   
  
Though in fairness, the bloke had almost singed Louis' eyebrow on that Tuesday last month. As equality goes in this particular household, that is the closest they can get.  
  
"You're just telling me that because you don't like my new running shoes." He quips, buttoning his shirt to the collar. "Besides, a little yellow's never ruined anybody."  
  
Harry's messily sprawled on his (Louis') bed like a house cat trying to gain attention, hair forming a wreath of halo curls along his head.  
  
"It's neon-green yellow, might I remind you." He says, rolling over the neatly folded blankets (mummy did not raise no juvenile couch potato). "Your date will possibly   
develop symptoms alike to a stomach ache just by the sight of it."  
  
"How would you know? You haven't met the bloke."  
  
"Neither have you."  
  
"We've been chattin' in Tinder, and he tells me that he likes neon colours."  
  
Harry narrows his eyes as though to say 'we're both quite aware of the actual fact, let's not dance around it, shall we'.  
  
Louis sighs languishingly.  
  
"It could happen." Though evidently, even _he's_ not quite sure whether he'd believe himself or not.  
  
And apparently, neither does Harry.  
  
"It _really_ couldn't."  
  
Louis heads towards the direction of the door with a sigh, gripping slightly at the door handle.  
  
"I don't suppose I could ask you to go to your own room."  
  
"Now wouldn't that be a trying experience." Affirms Harry, voice already a fainter baritone as he spoke from the furthest part of the (Louis') room. "I do recall disjecta membra* of which you, yourself have trespassed my current sleeping quarters."  
  
"You were being an arse on all those times." Louis grumbles, tapping at the material of the handle. "If you'd just talk to me properly like any sane individual would, none of that would've happened, you know?"  
  
"A little separation can make the heart grow fonder." Harry quotes idly. Had he heard him correctly? "We can't all be compulsive-stalkers all the time, now can we?" _And_ he lost it.  
  
"Harry for the last time -" He glances over his phone, hissing under his breath at the time. He pivots slightly towards Harry's general direction to leer seethingly at the bloke. "Just.. Just don't do anything to my things that would get you in a strop if you were in my shoes, alright?"  
  
Harry makes a non-comical sound in affirmation, waving a lazy hand to a sweeping gesture.  
  
"Harry."  
  
Harry rolls his eyes (well at least Louis could feel that he has - he's never wrong) from where he had been perusing through Louis' paraphernalia, frowning querulously.  
  
"Fine, fine." He sighs, indignant. "I assure full responsibility to whatever may or may not occur in this bedroom."  
  
A part of Louis' chest glows with pride.  
  
"Good." At the corner of his lips, he felt a small tugging sensation. He shouldn't feel _fond_. In fact, he better leave before anything else begin to fester.  
  
"Didactic morality is the unbecoming of a character." Harry trills from behind, voice almost a shy away from a whisper that suggested _something_ , and Louis' not quite sure as to how to make of it just yet. "Though I must acknowledge the slight boost in your otherwise declining percentage of grey matter."  
  
Louis opens his mouth to speak, but Harry groans prior.   
  
"And if trust is to be constructed in this mutual beneficiary, I will stray far away from my prohibitions for the duration of your absence. No need to get your feathers ruffled."  
  
Louis' gaze shifts towards his feet, smiling wider than he intended.  
  
"It shouldn't be for me, you know." He reminds idly, shaking his head. "As much as I'd like you to quit your habit, your own recovery is solely reliant on what you _choose_ to do. I'm not going to be that guy that tries to force into doing things that you don't like. It's just not me." And I'd never want to give a reason for you to hate me for real.  
  
When had he ever became the guy to act out soppy romance scenes, anyway?  
  
He ended up switching to one of his nicest pair of Van's instead.  _Not_ because Harry had requested that of him.  
  
  
-  
  
  
Surprisingly, the date had gone well.   
  
The bloke had been nice, they got dinner, they exchanged faint pleasantries (mostly thinly-veiled innuendoes - his favourite), and Louis even got to relax with this bloke without having the vague notions of wanting flee inconspicuously.  
  
He gave a peck to Louis on the side of the cheek when the the latter sat himself on a cab that he hailed. Even gave Louis his number, and asked him to call sometime on the next meeting.  
  
The next day had been Harry had been a good mood, and even bothered to offer to go to a new French restaurant that his father had owned in London.  
  
Later, Louis forgets that he even owned a phone, wrapped up in snippy remarks from Harry, and horrified glances that people who sat by them threw at every possible ocassion.  
  
There was not a next date.  
  
He should feel guilty for not feeling remotely of remorse. But then that was only because Harry had somehow gotten him an ASBO whilst being in the loo.  
  
A bloody menace, that one, he contemplates.  
  
  
-  
  
  
"It's raining hard, ain't it?" He murmurs to nobody in particular. Not Harry.  
  
Harry blinks from where he was sat, about an inch away from Louis, crossing his arms to retain some semblance of heat, face pinched in petulant disdain.  
  
"G-Good de-de-duction. I have high h-hopes for your future c-clienteles as a d-dick."  
  
Louis frowns, rolling his eyes.  
  
"Play on words should be beneath you, Styles."  
  
"Oh, I meant it collectively." Harry stutters, teeth chattering. "And I mentioned that catching colds are beneath me, not the latter." The inevitable 'idiot' had been obvious, which is why Harry didn't bother. "Had you arrived about, oh, an hour before, I wouldn't have to be cursed with this inferior litany of common household sicknesses."  
  
"Well, technically you're suffering from acute hypothermia, Harry." He points out. "No need to be so dramatic."  
  
"Then why couldn't you do something about it?!" Harry loses a bit of his cool. For once.  
  
"I would," Louis admits. "But you've still yet to admit it."  
  
"Admit what?"  
  
"That I'm not exactly useless when it comes to bailing you out."  
  
"Only to have me wait for an hour. In the rain. With very little to provide me warmth."  
  
"I bought you tea, didn't I?"  
  
"It's not freshly brewed."  
  
"Oh silly me." Louis shakes his head, hand pressed solemnly to his chest. "How had I forgotten that his highness only preferred homemade tea? What ever shall I do?" Then. "Is my tea-making skill that exceptional to your liking, prince?"  
  
Harry's teeth continue to chatter.  
  
"Mmm. You may be an idiot, but your brew is passable." He confesses, rubbing at his biceps in an attempt to generate heat.  
  
Louis smiles, secretly scintillating at the core of his chest.   
  
Without much thought, he begins stripping off an extra layer of jumper that he wore, and shoving to Harry's shoulder.  
  
"Wear that."  
  
A corner of Harry's mouth tightens, huffing under his breath.  
  
"And why should I?"  
  
"Because you're not hot enough." He deadpans.  
  
And that somehow got Harry to acquiesce, slipping his sopping clothed body into the encased warmth, sleeves short of a few inches. The jumper looked more like a bomber jacket on Harry rather than a leather one. Thankfully he hadn't been difficult about it. Much.  
  
"Pot-to-kettle." Harry murmurs begrudgingly, unconsciously burrowing further onto the soft material. Louis doesn't dare point it out. He rather appreciates his very adult teeth the way they are. "A man of c-countless hypocrisies."  
  
"At least mine's not semantically routed to insults."  
  
"I _had_ remarked you on your only practical skill, had-hadn't I?"  
  
"You did, and it made everything _so_ much better."  
  
"Well, well, I never took you to be one to share my dedication to excessively indulge in compliments." Says he, stutter free.  
  
"Sarcasm, Harry." They have discussed it. Numerously.  
  
"Oh. To my understanding of sarcasm, I should be well versed to detecting them - let alone be involved in its construct." Harry replies with a sniff.  
  
"But you're not. End of story."  
  
"Nope." Harry turns his head, wiping at his nose with a fresh alabaster cloth with yet another one of his encryptions in royal blue (the posh prick) beaded at the end, too proud to heed to his shortcomings. "At least not just yet."  
  
And it shouldn't sound like an oath, but it does.  
  
He sighs ominously.  
  
  
__  
  
  
The tinkle of the bell should've been annoying at the twenty-fifth time it was rung within the span of ten minutes, but he finds himself (unnecessarily) skipping lightly towards Harry's rooms who had allowed Louis (and only Louis) access, just so long as he merely speculated, and not mess about Harry's possessions.  
  
Though now that he's got a look-see, Harry's usual crash-landing site appeared more organized with its immaculate folders, and sticky-noted pages with endless scrawls of probably corrections to the text all either piled neatly, or half-strewn inside file cabinets. His books are encased in their appointed spots, marked in alphabetical order (and some other nomenclature that Harry's endeavored to explain to him, only to forget it minutes after when another distraction has caught his eye). Smart Arse.  
  
"Your face is just as appalling as it had been five minutes ago, Louis. How horribly low-maintenance." He coughs hoarsely. Lovely. He sincerely doubts he'll be getting much sleep tonight. Pun definitely _not_ intended. "Additionally, you are yet to replace your boorish fashion sense."  
  
"Harry, for the last time -" he pinches at the bridge of his nose. "I'm not going to be wearing a tweed suit to fulfill your Sherlock Holmes fantasies."  
  
"I had informed you that with complete confidence." He gasps, chastised, a slight flush pinking his ears from the mild fever, or embarrassment. It's hard to tell. "No need to bring such matters to light, I have been quite considerate of your feelings presently. I'd expect that you'd follow suit."  
  
"Sorry? Considerate?"  
  
"And here I thought that you had been joking about being deaf." Harry sips delicately at his tea that Louis had just refilled. "Now go on, out with it. We haven't got all day."  
  
"You do realize that I only told you to ring this bell when it's absolutely -"  
  
" - imperative that I would be in need of assistance." Harry continues for him, nodding with slightly hazy eyes, and reddish-tinted cheeks. "And have done so in an orderly fashion, hadn't I?"  
  
"You rang the bell just so I could separate your Smarties into individual colouring."  
  
"Only to serve the purpose that I've been continuously hacking up a storm, all because of your diva-complex." Harry accuses, sneering pensively as he does so. "That, and eating the wrong colour could potentially disturb the controlled irregularity that is Smarties."  
  
"I don't have a diva-complex!"  
  
"Don't you deny it." Harry humphs. "I have made a less favorable comment to your attentiveness, and you carry out your revenge by presenting one with a cold."  
  
"How the hell could I just present you with a cold?" He harrumphs, crossing his arms. He's definitely deflecting, but Harry's a bit slow when he's sick. Might as well make use of it. "I wasn't even sick to begin with."  
  
"Figurative." He waves his empty teacup lazily, indicating a refill. "And here I thought an improvement had been in order." Harry had risen to the bait, just like Louis knew he would.  
  
"I'm not a pet in need to be corrected, just for future reference."  
  
Harry hums (okay, so might not be as dazed as Louis assumed), adding large clumps of sugar cubes to his tea.  
  
"I'm not!" Louis insists.  
  
"I've neither denied, nor confirmed your assumption." He pops a blue smartie to his mouth. Then a red one.  
  
"Doesn't mean you haven't thought it already."  
  
Harry goes back to idly stirring his tea that Louis tips in, tossing in another handful of sugar cubes, before taking a large sip to act effectively (not really) as his answer.  
  
Another score for Louis.  
  
  
__  
  
  
Admittedly, it had been a failure in Louis' part for being too obtuse (even if he hadn't exactly outright professed it). However, truth be told (or at least according to Harry) the rest of humanity hadn't been too far behind (which he suppose _had_ been a compliment...sort of).  
  
It's been two years, he thinks. Two years since he's met Harry, and he's only realizing that Harry played the violin. The melody came out low at first, a soft legato that intertwined with a compelling crescendo, to an entirely new breed, a breadth of soft sighs of string on string that sounded complex, and vivid all the same.  
  
The door to Harry's had a slight opening to it that the sound resonates with Louis' - apparently - deaf ears.  
  
"Hey, Harry, could you -" He stops mid-breath to connect his brain to his mouth flaps. His first thought had been 'wow. I wonder who he's listening to.' Which in no time transitioned to. 'why am I suddenly finding out that my flatmate played an instrument so well?' Then. 'why am I surprised about this? It's Harry, for God's sake.'  
  
But Harry doesn't respond at all.   
  
He stood by the window that faced the backyard that trailed towards vast forestry, in another variation of a silk dressing gown (Louis swears the bloke had a different colour for everyday of the week), each finger caressing its very pathway on the fingerboard. He is still yet to acknowledge Louis, which is not at all as unnerving as he'd once perceived it to be. In fact, it was actually quite nice, serene its own element of swaying snowflakes in the breeze.  
  
"Shut up, Louis." His highness mutters, mechanically playing a little more stiffly than how he had positioned himself prior.  
  
Louis hates that he's able to tell that just from a glance.  
  
"I didn't say anything." He croaks half-heartedly, cursing the swell of emotion that went up his throat.  
  
"You were thinking, which therefore indicates an exhausting amount of effort on your part. Your thinking is  -quite literally - World War 3 for all I know." He sniffs, fingers flying and soaring to yet another composition, still rigidly in place. And he's apparently forgotten most parts of history that neither sounded grotesque, or involved brutal assassinations. "It's annoying."  
  
"Gee, thanks." Louis states flat-out, seating himself at an empty armchair by the hearth. "Don't mind me, I'm just making myself comfortable."  
  
Then Harry's violin screeches to a halt.   
  
Self-consciously, Louis grips at the fabric of his seat, idly planning out the quickest way to escape had he somehow misinterpreted the opportunity.  
  
"Why?" Harry had quietly inquired, shoulders tightening in physical strain. He doesn't attempt to look at Louis. Even the air felt robbed around the bloke if that had anything to go by. "It's not if there's anything compelling you to stay."  
  
"Don't be daft." Louis rolls his eyes. "I'm obviously here for the excess heat." He jests, smirking. "Me toe's been freezing even with socks on."  
  
"There is such thing as cranking the heater up. I'm sure you've enough experience at the practice." Also. "Need I remind you that those putrid things you wear on your smelly feet had stopped being socks post crater-shaped holes on them?"  
  
He ignores the offending comment about hygiene, and the need to purchase new socks. "And I wanted to hear you play. Obviously." Louis remarks, mimicking Harry's posh baritone. "As to why you hadn't guessed that already, I have no idea. You're slipping." He idly remembers to quote. It's a curse that the verity of the bloke's passion towards the show's infectious.  
  
"I should perhaps remark you on remembering to articulate genius during your inane babbling, even if it's a subject of ineptitude to which you cannot clearly grasp." Harry comments. "So why have you really come here in my sanctum sanctorum?"  
  
"That's a sort of a solitude...place thing, right?" Louis tries, squinting slightly at his own reasoning.  
  
"Clearly eloquence is yet another of your strongest suit." The tension on Harry's shoulders incrementally loosened. "You should've been a linguist, Professor Tomlinson."  
  
"Piss off, you." Was his witty come back. It would seem that Harry's been definitely improving in his sarcasm. That or brutal honesty. He suspects it's the latter.  
  
"Clearly." Harry repeats, resuming his playing, almost a touch closer to his usually manic self. Good.  
  
And Louis is once again barraged with resonating melody that threatened to drown him in the first place. Oddly enough, he felt akin to a sailor during that moment.  
  
  
-  
  
  
The snap of a photo came before he could comprehend where the sound had come from. Fortunately, he had his back to Harry to veil the flush on his cheeks. Perhaps Harry had maybe taken a picture of himself?  
  
"The lads had been pestering me about your role as my spouse." Harry murmurs, scratching underneath his thin, silk shirt, seating himself comfortably among cherry wooden chair with a dull squeak. "In its own reasons, it's been very telling."  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
But Harry had already left to get changed for an evening meeting with one of his father's rivals to possibly break-even in some score, and settle a deal that ended up with mutual beneficiary and profit (because of course). It's surprising how detail-oriented Harry had been when it came to his father's line of work.  
  
Louis frowns, reaching for a plate, and some plastic wrap. Guess they'll be eating mushy pesto pasta for two days.  
  
  
-  
  
  
Ironically it had been a rainy day when he found out. Well, he couldn't quite recall the medium as to how he found out about the events pertaining the situation. All he knew was that he ran like his whole life depended on it, gasping for breath, back to where Harry had been as Louis had left him about an hour prior to get some groceries done for the week.  
  
An overdose the paramedics had claimed, and Louis had apparently been Harry's emergency contact. A joke, he had rationalized for a second, until he saw Harry's limp body being maneuvered through a gurney. A very funny joke indeed, as he rushed towards the open doors of the ambulance. Very funny.



 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Thoughts? :)


	15. Sister dear.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Harry's overdose. Louis meets more of Harry's family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello!
> 
> I'd hate to be a stickler to leave anyone hanging after something major such an overdose (oh, I hate those kind of things), so after waiting on getting about a quarter done, I allowed for the chapter to breathe a bit, then continue on my only free day of the week to finish the rest. I can't make a promise to get another chapter with the same haste, but here you go! Thank you so much for your lovely comments, they will forever fuel my inspiration to write. 
> 
> P.S. May possibly include some medical inaccuracies. Well.. Enjoy!

  * • •  
  
  
"... and I've just been told that his condition is stable, sir."  
  
There wasn't any interruption, not even a breath of concern to be brought forth. He thinks he hears a sigh, though that could just be the static he idly hears in the background.  
  
"Worry not, Mr. Tomlinson." William..or was it Thomas? Wasn't he just talking to Des about a bloody minute ago? "The media's already bargained with, and Mr. Styles - the younger's - name wouldn't catch light in the media till the whole situation blows over."  
  
"William." Louis sighs.  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"What happened to Mr. Styles? Wasn't he just talking to me?"  
  
There was a pause.  
  
"No sir." William voices, confused. "He had me handle his phone while he's on a meeting, sir."  
  
"Pass me over, William." Louis somehow manages to grit out. "I need to talk to your employer. It's about his son."  
  
"Oh, he's already been told, sir. He was the one who commanded me to bribe the media, sir." And for the love of god, the cold politeness from this...this imbecile (Harry's influence, really) just manages to make him angrier. He had no idea what he saw in him in the first place - apart from his generously proportioned prick in prim, tailored trousers. "Would there be anything else, Mister Tomlinson?"  
  
"Yes." He clenches his fist. "Tell your employer that if he wants to know more about Harry's condition, he better damn well see it for his own eyes to find out."  
  
"Hadn't you mentioned he was stable sir?" Asks William.  
  
"Well, yes, but -"  
  
"Then Mr. Styles has no more need for further explanation.  
  
"But -"  
  
"And should you wish to resign - " (have they all expected that of Louis? To quit?) The bloke voiced monotonously, cruel in its lack of empathy. But he couldn't manage to get anymore out, considering Louis had basically nicked his screen by stabbing a finger towards the end call action. He can't deal with Harry's shitty father right now, let alone his assistant for that matter.  
  
His phone rings again as he was pacing towards the corridors of the ER, urging himself to calm down enough to deem him worthy to be able to attend to Harry when everything else settles.  
  
"Hello? What?!"  
  
"Louis. Liam just called me about Harry. What the hell happened?!" Zayn.  
  
He vaguely realizes that his walls had begun to crumble.  
  
"Zayn." Louis voices out steadily, attempting to breathe through his nose, and prevent himself from shattering right there and then with the overwhelming concern for Harry that he never knew he could ever conceive for a person. "Harry - Harry, he -" Alright, he despondently notes: trying to speak right now should be avoided.  
  
"Lou, do something for me, okay?" Zayn's voice goes soft, and soothing all the same like Zayn was three, and Louis had been four, and Louis had been trying to cope with why his mum had been refusing to talk to him.  
  
He finds that he nods, regardless of whether his friend could see him.  
  
And it seems as Zayn could comprehend from the silence that he agreed.  
  
"Breathe, Lou. You're going into shock, and that's probably not what Harry would need right now." Assuming that he's still alive, remained unsaid.  
  
What did Zayn mean? He was breathing, wasn't he? Wasn't he? The corners of his vision blur slightly, and okay, he wasn't breathing as frequent as he thought he was.  
  
One..  
  
Two..  
  
One..  
  
Two..  
  
"Good, Lou." Zayn crows quietly. "Breathe, that's it."  
  
"You know," Louis stutters, coughing up air. "if we keep going like this, people might talk." And maybe a corner of his mouth lifted, a bit.  
  
Zayn doesn't miss a beat. "Oh, you know I've only got eyes for you, darling."  
  
"What about Liam?"  
  
"What _about_ Liam?"  
  
And they were both giggling like little girls.  
  
"You should've never called, Zayn." Louis points out after a moments silence drifted between the two. "I could've bitten your head off while you're in Paris."  
  
"You say that like that's stopped you before." A moments hesitance. "So, are you ready to talk about it now, or.."  
  
Louis takes a breath, wiping a damp hand on his face, stiffening slightly at the mention.  
  
"Harry's father is a dick."  
  
"Surprise, surprise?" Zayn sounded confused, but agreed all the same. "What happened?"  
  
"I told him his son OD'd, and all he cared about was looking good in the public's eye." He clenches his fist, refusing the bile to rise from his throat in disgust. "Doesn't even bother to listen to details other than knowing his son's alive." Or not, but he'd rather not dwell on what could've happened, and be content - at least for now - that Harry had been okay (or so they've mentioned - he really loathes the hospital).  
  
"Why do I suddenly have the sudden urge to to roast that man's prick on a bonfire." Hisses Zayn. "He doesn't fucking deserve Harry's respect and trust, never will."  
  
"Didn't you say you grew up with him?" Louis hazards. Zayn's never talked much about his childhood with Harry. "I'd figured he would've, I don't know.." He murmurs, knowing his shortcomings when it came to the Styles'. "Fed you caviar at every visit?"  
  
"I've never even spoken to the man when I was boy, just knew that he was famous and stuff. I was a bit surprised that he even knew my number, and called me about Harry." Zayn confesses. "I mostly know Harry 'cause he's been trailing after me like a duckling when I spoke to him the first few times - not that I regretted it, but you know how he is...or, was..."  
  
And if Louis had been slow on the uptake, his senses sharpened instantly.  
  
"What? An eccentric, ego-maniac, who feeds on people's misery?" He snorts reminiscently. "I can only imagine it now."  
  
"Yeah, well, he's never really been open to letting people in." His friend admits. "Childhood had never really been his best friend, and I guess he's never really fully grown out of that phase."  
  
"Well, he's smarter than anyone I know; I can only imagine how he had to deal with that." Louis murmurs, slightly begrudgingly. "Mix that with all the attention to his father's wealth, and..." All of a sudden, he's struck with a sort of understanding for the bloke. He could vividly remember how odd and striking it was to meet with Harry, how infuriated, yet intrigued he had been when he found out that this person was whom Zayn had known at such a young age, before he met Louis. And for some reason he irrationally envied his best friend for having the opportunity instead of him.  
  
It was if meeting the bloke had somehow metaphysically drawn him to paying more attention to the world, and actually draw a sense of wonder to it, like he's finally seeing reality for what it truly was for the first time: eclectic, dynamic, morbid, and absolutely fucking perfect on its own.  
  
He hates that he's used to it, has grown accustomed to this new lifestyle as if it had been a missing limb that he never knew he had misplaced in the first place - never mind the overwhelming amount of money he gets every month, that he can live without. It makes him want to throttle Harry for being the fucking most ridiculous, and yet at the same time the single most interesting person that Louis' ever known, and he's in the fucking ER getting his blood clean of whatever batshit thing he took, while Louis uselessly waits in these uncomfortable squeaky chairs, awaiting for the results other than Harry being 'stable'.  
  
And he's vaguely aware of his best friend talking in the background, but he's too busy _feeling_ this overwhelming amount of emotions for this bloke that he knew for about two years, whom he had regarded previously as the git who was hell bent on trying to ruin Louis' life not too long ago. But now - he hates to admit it, but Harry had became something of an importance to Louis, and that in itself is an overdue revelation that needed further analysing, but first, he's got to wait for the little twat to wake up so that Louis could talk up some sense into the bloke.  
  
"...and I was a little surprised that he's opened up to you so well."  
  
He backtracks for a bit.  
  
"Sorry, what?"  
  
"Oh, don't act like you guys aren't actually dating."  
  
"But Zayn, we're not dating." He grits out.  
  
"Could've fooled me."  
  
"Zayn!" Louis whines.  
  
"Look, I'm just saying that I've known the bloke for - what? Five years? And he's never that chatty with me."  
  
"He gets creative when he knows it's going to annoy me." He states. "That was him, _annoying_ me, just in case you're wondering."  
  
"Look Lou, I don't know what game you two are trying to play, but this weird mating ritual's been going in for, what? Two years? When are you two going to get both your head out of your arses to realize that you guys are actually dating?"  
  
"But we're not -"  
  
"Mister Tomlinson?"  
  
"Yes?" He turns to see a dark-haired male doctor with a professional lab coat, gripping a clipboard (that presumably contained Harry's medical file) and pen with medical examination gloves.  
  
"We have mildly bonded Mr. Styles to his bed, due to his creative agitation -" sounds about right, he somehow notes fondly without understanding why. "- and we have also injected him with 10 mg of naloxone directly through the bone marrow to administer his medication for the upcoming withdrawal. He's in stable condition, but we'd like to keep him around 72 hours for proper analysis, re-application of .4 mg of naloxone periodically over the span of his stay, and rehabilitation. There may be some delay with hospital supervision due to his current...history."  
  
Something in Louis drops at the sound. "I've only heard about one other incident with his wrists, was it that one?"  
  
The bloke's features remained neutrally impassive. "Yes, but that is one among a collection of times that Mr. Styles had supposedly attended the hospital's care. As you are his emergency contact attendee, you are given free-reign to peruse through Mr. Styles' medical record whenever you please. Do you have any more clarifying questions or concerns that pertains Mr. Style's health?"  
  
Louis tried his hardest not to gape. "Uh, how... will he be okay now? Am I allowed to see him?"  
  
"Yes, sir." The doctor smiles sympathetically, eyeing Louis' rapidly shifting gaze from the doctor to Harry's door. "He might be a bit lucid, but otherwise Mr. Styles is a bit...fussy. He's in a bit of a strop, but that would've probably have been due to the morphine we have provided him with." Yep, he's heard all these words before. Also, fussy is by far the nicest word for calling Harry a massive prick - he's a bit grateful for that.  
  
"Okay." Louis says carefully. "Is there anything I can do to help him...feel comfortable? Maybe bring some soup, or something?"  
  
"Oh, that won't be necessary." The doctor shakes his head knowingly. "I wouldn't suggest bringing in any actual food because he had just gotten his injections, any type of food wouldn't make it pass for a minute without manual upheaval." Louis winces just slightly. "Some ice chips might need to be administered through him by any means, though, due to his inability to comply, we had to administered him the IV drip for now. Maybe handing him a bucket when he calls for it, would be necessary just in case. But other than that, you should be fine. If you have further inquiries, just give the nurse in-charge a tap, and they can come and get me if you'd like?"  
  
"That would be great, thank you so much, doctor..?"  
  
"Myers. Greg Myers."  
  
"Louis Tomlinson." Louis shakes the proffered hand with a smile, and walked towards the door of Harry's room.  
  
He took one brief inhale, smelling nothing but antiseptics (sickening), before turning the knob to be met with an array of white curtains billowing, and amongst all the whites is Harry perched on the hospital bed, swaddled in green swabs sticking to his chest with a thin layer of sweat (that really shouldn't compliment his eyes, and yet), and the promised IV drip that's connected to a vein on one of his pallid wrists. His hair had been rumpled many times, lacking its regular chestnut sheen, eye bags had been prominent under his penetrating - though slightly hazy - emerald gaze, his expression hooded and unreadable as Louis slowly makes his way to Harry's bedside along with a plastic chair on one hand. And Louis might be imagining things, because Harry looked to be astounded by his mere presence.  
  
He eyes Harry for a second, before taking a seat whilst he releases a long breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding.  
  
"I guess they can call us properly married by now." Muses Louis with a slight smile. "With me being your emergency contact, and all."  
  
There will never come a day where he hadn't regretted taking a picture of Harry's surprise, and document it in a photo album or something, the blokes mouth agape, eyes wide.  
  
"I'm sorry?" Harry asks weakly, albeit strained.  
  
But Louis continues.   
  
"I mean, our living arrangements are already of marital status, we argue like an old couple who have nothing better to do all the time, and you're tolerable when you're not being a gigantic arsehole, I guess." And it shouldn't be that easy to admit, even when he does it solely to irritate Harry (or at least try to).  
  
It took about a minute for Harry to scan Louis' features before groaning, and allowing himself to lie down,  instead of having his back to the wall as he sat, a long bicep carelessly thrown specifically to cover his eyes with the crook of his arm. He's the picture-perfect dramatic if it had anything to go by - as always, like how Ophelia must've looked just before she'd drown.  
  
"That was merely meant to annoy you." Harry points out, voice partly muffled by his arm. "Besides, marriage in itself is made by, and for sentimental fools who see forever in a span of a few years. It's a bit impractical to refer to myself in that context."  
  
"So you're _not_ rejecting it, then?" He was definitely full-on smirking. "Are you in-love with me, or something, Harry Styles?"  
  
Harry removes his arm away to leer half-heartedly at Louis before covering his vision once more.  
  
"The chemistry is very simple but very destructive." Harry snorts idly, chuckling due to pure repulsion that is privy to Louis. "Sentimentalities that require irrational thinking, and emotionally-driven decisions are abhorrent to my nature." Not an answer, but he chooses not to pursue it further.  
  
"So..." Louis surmises, furrowing his brow. "You hate love? Wonderful." He tries to not feel the slight stinging of his stomach getting whipped from the the inside out.  
  
"Correct, as you are well aware." Harry affirms. "So all your practice _have_ paid off."  
  
"But..why?" The words came out faster than he can rationalize them, because it's like Harry is speaking English, and Louis understands what each word meant individually, just not together, and he's somehow irrationally angry at Harry for confusing him.  
  
"Why, what?" Harry snaps, still not removing his arm to look at Louis properly.  
  
"Why do you hate love?"  
  
"My god," Harry hisses, whipping his free arm to his side to glare menacingly at Louis, a sneer etched almost permanently to his face. "Love is a pathogenic virus that is more vicious in potency than any known epidemic in history. It lures you into this utopia in which elation and heartbreak hold the same position, and the scale could tip at any moment. But then, somewhere along the way - when you've realized that you've gone too far, where the path you lead is no longer discernible to your next turn - you realize that a utopia is nonexistent. It posses your body, your mind, your heart, and once it takes ahold of you, there is no turning back when you're already at the centre of the maze. It's...It's not an advantage, Louis." Harry's gaze soften, as though he didn't want to believe it, didn't want to think the notion of love being something like a virus, but the very moment he realizes Louis' attention focused solely on him, he looks away, stricken by something he sees.  
  
"Harry." He had no idea how to respond to all that. "Harry."  
  
"I've no need for your pity, Louis." He insists woefully. "I'm fine as I am."  
  
"You made me your emergency contact."  
  
"Really?" Harry snipes defensively, completely acclimatize to the shift in subject. Some might see a slight relief from the tension on the bloke's shoulders. "Do you not realize that your need for stating the obvious borders on mania?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Repetition should have surpassed your baser instincts."  
  
"But it didn't, so why?"  
  
"You are - as you no doubt know - hired as a caretaker." Harry decides, pace slower than usual as if he's dragging the words out by force. "It should've been succinct."  
  
"But it clearly isn't, Harry." Louis squeezes his fists hard enough that they whiten as they sat on his lap. "Because an emergency contact is meant for family, close friend, relatives, boyfriend, girlfriend, partner, spouse; If you hadn't noticed by now, I'm neither of those things, so why?"  
  
"I don't understand." Harry finally admits.  
  
And for once, Louis' relieved that he's not the only one who was lost here.  
  
"You're a genius, and I'm apparently a nitwit. Try me."  
  
"What do you want from me?" Harry inquires, seething through the corners of his eyes, but it's more through the anger of unable to follow Louis for once. Probably. That, or something else completely. "What is it that you're trying get me to do?"  
  
Okay, perhaps he's not much of an insinuator then?  
  
"Nothing.. I... nothing at all." And for some god forsaken reason, he means it. He distinctly files away the memory for further investigation on the back of his head. The very fact that Harry had placed at least some importance in him - enough to make him the madman's emergency contact - made his chest glow. He's trying his hardest not to smile at the disgruntled expression that Harry positively oozes with.  
  
"Louis." Harry yaps, seating himself once more. "Reiterating will never be my forte, so if you could just do us all a favour, and just..." His nose crinkles in displeasure, completely perturbed with the idea of asking the inferior plebeians (commoner, apparently) to aid with the thinking deficiency he's currently facing.  
  
Louis makes a slight dismissive noise, waving the subject away as far as he could get away with.  
  
"Sentiment. Human emotions. I'm sure you'd probably be bored."  
  
"Ah." Harry yawns like a large exhausted kitten, rubbing at his eyes in fatigue (And if his chest had tightened to temporarily inhibit any form of breathing, nobody had to know). Clearly, his health has finally caught up with him and is feeling particularly vindictive, seeing as the span of Harry's yawn came within a minute of each other, eyes slightly droopy. "So good of you to favour consideration on my behalf." The inevitable 'for once' is obvious, but he doesn't pay mind to it.  
  
A knock came at the other end of the door, and Louis snaps out of the moment, idly taking note of how rigid his posture became. Who could be visiting Harry without notifying they're coming?  
  
Slowly, he opens the door, and it was a...delivery man? Oh. He's completely forgotten that he'd ordered in.  
  
He yanks the knob open to allow some space for the exchange of Louis' cash for the very fresh box of pizza that he's ever seen for his cash, before slamming the door to a close in case the pizza guy had been another vulture.  
  
"That was rather rude, even by your level." Another yawn. "Has primal instincts gotten the best of you that even hunger's your main priority?" At Louis' scowl, Harry smirks indulgently. "Though I suppose, social niceties had never been a skill of which you exceeded, even as Adam and Eve had been born, and have given birth to spontaneous procreation that we now know is incest."  
  
What a load of bullocks, this man is.  
  
"Harry." He finds himself bracing for the impact. "Are you okay?"  
  
Then Harry's face did this thing, where it twitches in many different places within nanoseconds (like it couldn't settle to a suitable choice), before deciding on a blank slate.  
  
"I'm living, and breathing." Harry decides calmly, idly twiddling with his thumbs, and forefinger, naked of the usual acquired taste in rings - Louis decides he misses them. "Some might say they're the same thing."  
  
Louis almost smirks.   
  
"And you don't believe that." He mutters decisively.  
  
Like a bullet, Harry meets his eyes, strong, hot, a shot of adrenaline, pulsing through his veins.  
  
"Not at all." He confesses slowly, not looking to acknowledge Louis' incredibly rare prescience.  
  
There was definitely something fizzing up the air, something scalding, something humid that they haven't quite touched on before.  
  
Louis doesn't quite realize that he was moving closer until he could feel Harry's breath almost caressing his cheeks, his lashes, his mouth. And if he was to lean in a bit further, he'd possibly -  
  
  
"Sorry I'm late, Harry!" A voice calls out cheerily from the offending door that was decidedly closed seconds before. "I sure do hope that my little brother has yet to forget me." Within a flash, she was at Harry's bedside (not occupied by Louis), cradling the latter's face like an extremely delicate porcelain, caressing his cheeks reverently.  
  
  
And their moment ended as soon as it came, with Harry's expression shuttering away from any lingering cracks that may have chipped off prior to the woman's (Harry's sister) arrival, leaving a desolate, almost haggard aftertaste borne of a nightmare that left Louis questioning whether he really knew Harry at all.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
_"Okay, okay." Louis laughs, almost choking on his onion soup, laughs even harder when Harry's nose wrinkles. "Siblings," he hums as he drinks his (Harry's) sparkling water. "You have those, don't you?"_  
  
_And for a second, he thought that Harry wasn't going to answer. "I do." He mutters, partaking to a large sip of his red wine. "A sister."_  
  
_"Well, don't act too happy about it." Louis saves if a bit hastily, noting Harry's quick change in demeanor from funnily annoyed to something a bit...darker? "I have 6 sisters, and a brother. A bit hellish from the start, but once you've gotten to know them, they can be quite sweet."_  
  
_"What?" He asks at the slightly greenish tint that coloured Harry's cheeks._  
  
_"Nothing, just..." Harry chews on his lower lip. "It's rather vexing to articulate particular forms of flattery that correctly categorizes...feelings about my sister's nature without upsetting Father."_  
  
_"I thought you don't feel things." Louis winks at Harry's scowl._  
  
_"I don't." The latter states firmly._  
  
_He chooses to drop the subject._  
  
_"Well, I don't think he monitors the CCTV, if that's what you're afraid of."_  
  
_"It's not him that I'm particularly worried about."_  
  
_"Should I be worried?" He asks, not really expecting an answer._  
  
_"Who knows." Harry answers vaguely, after they get back from the restaurant, heading towards his rooms in an elegant stride, with Louis right at his heels. "Don't bother me for a couple of hours. I've a Louis-sensitive experiment that needs tending to." And the door was slammed shut at his face before he could give a proper retort._  
  
_"Fuck's sake."_  
  
  
\- -  
  
  
"Wow, bloody gorgeous, aren't you?" Harry's sister (Gemma, he idly recalls), points out, fluttering her thin lashes. "Extra brownie points for luring a good one, little brother." She strokes Harry's arm like a dear pet. Harry merely blinks at it dismissively. "Nobody can appreciate beautiful creatures, such as I."  
  
Louis can feel his own face flush at the compliments, which is a non-sequitur, considering one, he's gay (utterly and completely), and two, hadn't she been paying close attention to Harry just a few seconds ago?  
  
"L-Louis Tomlinson." He stutters, holding out his hand.  
  
"Gemma Anne Styles." She smiles toothily, shaking Louis' hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Louis. How about some lunch?"  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"Lunch. I'm starving, Louis." Her voice pitches ever-so-slightly, yet appearing a touch petulant and endearing, that looked too familiar for Louis' liking. "I know an adequate Thai place that I'd been meaning to attend."  
  
"But, I've got a -" he notions to the steaming box of pizza on the side table, then blinks towards Harry's direction. "And -"  
  
"Don't bother, Louis." Harry sighs, settling on his back, eyes closed, but posture slightly rigid. "I'm rather tired, and your diet is appallingly horrid for somebody who worked alongside a vet nutritionist. Once my dear sister's made up her mind, she intends to follow through with intended compliance."  
  
"Guilty." Gemma smirks, not sounding the least bit, patting at Harry's shoulder softly, not taking her eyes off Louis.  
  
"Well then." She brushes off nonexistent dirt off her hemmed, pencil skirt, beaming brightly at Louis. "Shall we?"  
  
Louis nods, mirroring the expression.  
  
"Yeah, you go on ahead, I'll catch up. I've just got to..." His eyes drifts to Harry's supine form, before meeting Gemma's gaze.  
  
And for some reason, Gemma's expression falters a bit, but nods, and rebuffs herself as she leaves through the doorway.  
  
He reaches out to want to copy the same notions that Gemma had done, but he figured that poking at Harry's rib should be enough.  
  
Harry's breathing hitches for a second, but he opens his eyes to regard Louis, strangely vulnerable under the fluorescent lights, hazy, yet with a touch of a knowing glint that he's forever attributed to Harry.  
  
"Don't eat my pizza." He merely says. "I'll know when I count it later." I'll come back, is what he means.   
  
"Piss off." Harry softly replies with a small curled smile. "Wouldn't want to anger the gluttonous mother hen." Alright.  
  
  
-  
  
  
Louis catches up to Gemma as she was making a phone call, brows furrowed.  
  
When she catches sight of Louis, she mouthed off a few more words, before approaching Louis with a bestial smile, as a side door if a black sedan opens up, with a man in a black suit, and pressed ivory button up holds the door.  
  
Louis eyes Gemma skeptically, but follows in after her when she titters about, settling in her seat.  
  
The vehicle maneuvers through the London streets with practiced ease. The roads were long winding, which was why he settles tersely from where was seated, eyeing the window, wondering if it was made of bullet-proof glass.  
  
"I'm guessing that we won't be having any lunch." He states firmly.  
  
"I have promised a meal." Gemma rolls her eyes, diverting her attention towards the windows as well. "The fact that I had been starving is no fabrication, Doctor Tomlinson."  
  
"How did you -"  
  
"Details." She decides, waving a lazy hand. "What I'd like to know, is your intention with my brother."  
  
Louis' hackles raise.  
  
"I'm sorry? Intentions?"  
  
"It's what I said." She sniffs, propping her chin on the heel of her palm, the other hand idly curling about her hair in a stroking gesture, like she enjoys the texture.  
  
"My intentions are purely chaste, m'aam." He jokes, smirking at Gemma's snort.  
  
"I could get you through a program that allows you to pursue your credentials as you had intended to pursue your long awaited practice."  
  
Louis pauses.  
  
"In...exchange for what?"  
  
"Staying with him. Nothing too explicit, just...be by his side when he needs you to. Consummate if need be."  
  
"No."  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"I said, no." Louis sighs. "I'm not going to do it."  
  
"And why not?"  
  
"Why are you bribing me to stay with your brother?"  
  
"Because you aren't particularly rich." She states, as-a-matter-of-a-factly. "And he needs someone...steady."  
  
"Can you drop me off here? I think I can still get back before nightfall if I hurry back."  
  
"Louis."  
  
"Gemma, please."  
  
Gemma studies him for a second, before tapping on the vicinity of glass where the driver's head was supposed to be.  
  
The car swerves immediately towards the nearest stop.  
  
Louis gets out of the car silently. When he notices that Gemma had rolled down the windows to unabashedly study him, a corner of his lip lifts.  
  
"How about a rain check on lunch."  
  
Gemma's eyes widen a fraction, but smiles in response, as she orders the car to get on moving.  
  
"See you, Louis."  
  
And a evidence of seeing Gemma Styles dissolved within that moment, masked by the mundanity of detritus on the side of the road.  
  
"Bye, Gemma."



 

  * • •



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love hearing about what you guys think of parts of the story. Makes me fill with warmth to know that you guys aren't merely just browsing through semi-decent - albeit sometimes wordy - stories, but also actively interacting with the characters, rather than just to let them be, and exist only through words. I hope you guys enjoy reading about them, as much as I do with writing about them. Have a wonderful day! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it, please leave your kudos or comments below!  
> My tumblr is pidgeontoestyles if you have any questions/concerns .xx


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